


Lyall

by beyondcrystyle



Series: L.Y.A.L.L. [1]
Category: Avengers: Earth's Mightiest Heroes, Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), X-Men (Movies)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fem!Logan, Fem!Wolverine, From 1832 to now..., Hadn't watched X-men Origins: Wolverine when started writing, I am trying to update on the first of every month, Is a MCU/X-men movies/Marvel Movies cross over, Lots and lots of non-canon arcs, MY WRITING GETS BETTER WITH EACH CHAPTER I SWEAR, Male!Silverfox, OC is Logan, Serious swearing, Sorry for my shitty writing, Swearing, Yeah confusing I know, like WHOA that's some swearing, non-canon characters - Freeform, thank you for reading
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-30 05:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 71,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3924547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyondcrystyle/pseuds/beyondcrystyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if... Wolverine was a girl? What if... there was a second passenger? And what if... she was from the future?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ichibon

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Other languages will be present when I get good translators.  
> Until then, the only way to see the cover is on FF.net and Wattpad.  
>   
>   
>  **HELLO PLEASE READ**  
>  In chapter 13 there is an explicit scene depicting torture. Even though its only for a few paragraphs I've raised the rating to Teen and Up. If **you** think it should go higher, please tell me.  
> 

# Chapter One

Before I tell my story, somethings need to be explained.

What we live in is not called a universe, world, dimension, timeline or whatever the heck science or fantasy make up. They don't have a name, but I call them Differences. Differences are created every second - and change every second. There are thousands that are the same, waiting for the right moment to become its own. If you dream it up, it's happening right now. That daydream you had? It's somewhere out there. That passing thought? Also out there. Even literally taking the right road instead of the left is real. There are Differences that speculate what happens to you: gain a superpower, report a crash, first victim of an alien attack, death, even a simple call from your daughter asking you to pick her up because her road bike's tyre is flat again.

There are Differences waiting for someone to chance their history; it might be someone you don't know, a whole chain reactions, even you yourself.

The reason why I'm telling you this is because there are those who jump from Differences, even once. And, you guessed it, I'm one of those people.

My life all the way up to the point of my death was boring compared to those you hear, but had its own way of being interesting. I needed a special type of therapy, because apparently my ears, eyes and brain weren't completely matched up but I didn't realised until I started high school - mum didn't feel the need to tell me, I was doing fine in school. Great, actually.

I grew up watching studio Ghibli movies and anime, and in return obsessed over anything Japanese. My dream job was to go over to Japan and teach English there. Along the way, I'd picked up a liking of history from my mother, love of anything technology from father and lived a life well done in my terms. I had my faults of course - first was the fact I didn't need to study until uni, I was a lazy little girl, didn't care about anything or anybody much and quite unhygienic. It wasn't surprising I didn't marry at all and relationships were sporadic and weak.

I made my mark on the world, didn't do much but taught English to future world-famous kids and died from old age at 73, memory fully intact.

Then, I woke up in a crib, a mid-wife cooing over me, in a body almost weaker than my elderly one. Time slipped past me and I found myself in a bed 99 percent of the time, body nearly always in a state of sickness. The mid-wife started to read me baby stories but soon they were upgraded to harder and complicated books very quickly as I spoke to her like I always did. As time progressed and I completed the things she put in front of me with ease, she grew troubled and fearful.

Impossible, she would murmur, Children aren't supposed to learn this fast, even for geniuses.

She vanished not long after.

It was almost my fifth birthday when everything caught up with me.

My new name is Lyall Howlett, born to wealthy parents John and Elizabeth Howlett. I didn't see them much, a stereotypical rich family. But what shocked me was the year was 1837, not 2074 like I last time I checked. Plus, there was this strong sense of déjà vu whenever someone mentioned a name, like I knew them vaguely.

It wasn't until I met my half-brother Victor I found out why.

In my previous life my mother complained quite frequently my brain was turning into mush from joining too many fandoms - the Avengers, Harry Potter, and Naruto just to name a few. Among them all was X-men, including Wolverine: Origins.

What a dreadful life I have ahead of me.

I had to record all my memories - I knew I would forget everything - I did not have a good memory at all no matter what mother said. With a combination of Japanese sentence structure, English-Pig Latin words and Gnommish symbols from Artemis Fowl I wrote down everything I knew. First was my previous life, mundane things such as how awesome my 9th grade SOSE and Japanese sensei was to amazing facts of how hard it was to get a PhD in Japanese and Psychology.

Once the book of Amy, My Previous Life was completed, I started another book of every fandom I joined and everything I remembered. This included jokes, theories, actual stories, different fanfictions I'd read and the stuff you could find on the internet.

A very huge part of that book was dedicated to anything Wolverine.

It took me forever to write it all down, and I was six when I finally completed it. I kept the two books on me 24/7, not caring if I gained an ache from sleeping on them too much.

John - my second father - had become worried, watching me write nonsense into a diary for one year straight like I was possessed. He'd turn up by my bed often almost more than Victor, and it wasn't soon before I confessed about Amy. He listened when I laid out my proof, and still accepted me with welcoming arms. Dad and I grew incredibly close.

Elizabeth didn't bother to hide her hate of me, loathing me more as I grew, my features getting scarily like the groundskeeper, Thomas Logan. Quite often when passing me she would sneer and rant about how unladylike I was, when I should be wearing dresses not the filthy, common clothes I usually run around because they reminded me of my previous life.

Victor was my only other person I was close with. While I was stuck in bed from extreme allergy reactions he'd tell me about all the mischief Victor would get in all around the grounds.

Lyall, he would say, drowsy after a big day of working in the gardens for summer, remember siblings look after each other.

Even if we're not related? I'd ask, and sneeze horribly, my whole body shivering. Victor would gently hug me, his warmth seeping into my person.

Even then.

Then, the years would creep past me without my knowledge. My two books meant the world to me as I realised my memory was failing me.

Four months after my thirteenth birthday, I was strong enough to move around for a precious few days. I could hear dad chatting with an angered Thomas, but I ignored it. He was in those moods most of the time - I could see the effect it had on Victor.

A loud sickening bang rang throughout the house and a yell of suddenly silenced pain.

No!

Thomas was standing over his employer, gun in hand, smoking barrel faced in dad's head. He slumped on the ground and a pool of blood coated the carpet.

"Dad?!" I scream, tensed arms rolling to face him. An ugly, dripping blood hole decorated his head, just above his ear. "No! Dad!" I screamed and cried, lashing out at Thomas, intending to punch him. My fury and loathing of my dad's killer stalled when I realised I had three claws sprouting from in between my knuckles, blood dripping from the tips onto my soft fingers. Thomas was slouched next to dad, three impossibly deep lines cleaving his back in two.

I

Just

Killed

Fat tears rolled down my cheeks when Victor found me, tucked into the corner, trying to be as small as I could. All that my eyes could focus on was the two bodies, one lying on top of the other, scarlet red liquid shimmering around them, eyes wide open and not breathing.

Years later I would realise my healing factor saw as this event as a danger and purposely made me forget. Victor didn't know that when he took me out from the murder site, so he was rightfully confused when I asked where dad was over and over until he had to tell me the truth. My claws on my right hand were still out, blood cleaned off by my half-brother.

I clenched the other fist and cried out when an identical three ripped out. Victor came rushing and stared at them with fascination and curiosity. Mother chose that point to stalk in, long face staring at me down her nose. She took one look at the claws and slapped me.

"Freak!" She snarled, long nails biting into my arm as she spat into my face. "Leave this place and never come back!"

"Fine!" Victor snarled, "We'll leave together!" He drooped my arms over his shoulders, taking care to pack light but with lots of food.

"Dad," I cried, clutching my fandom book in my hands, "dad."

It wasn't until I feel asleep did the claws retreat.

I woke up on an old, old train, overrun by weeds and beautiful plants. Not far from where I was sleeping a huge oak tree with baby acorns split the rusting train in two, a few thin strips of metals stretching in between the two body parts. Victor was nowhere to be seen.

I shakily stood up from the frayed sheet that was draped on me. The roof of the train was still intact, the rust giving it a bright orange colour. Standing next to the oak tree with one hand on it, I surveyed the massive drop on the left, where further along the train track the metal carriages drooped over. On the right side was a hill with countless of deer and goat tracks everywhere. Fresh footprints of all kinds of animals littered the dirt, Victor's human feet standing out clearly from them all. The air carried a faint sent of wild animals, and an overpowering sweet smell of fresh rain on dirt and plants.

"Victor!" I call, my voice straining. He didn't answer. I sob, thinking he left me as well. A light wind ruffled the leaves and my pitch black hair was swept out of my face. I clenched my fist, thinking of hitting the wall in frustration. A scream tore through my throat when the bones ripped out of my fist. As I watch, the skin grows right back, stopping at the base of the claws making like they were always like that.

A scramble of rocks, Victor slid down from a tiny goat track, and leaped up beside me.

"Lyall," he says, wrapping his hands around my fist, "its okay. It is okay." I take a shuddering breath and slowly unclench my hand. The bones slid back into my hand and I could feel them inside my arms like Tony might feel like when he first had his arc reactor in his chest.

"What's happening to me?" The slits healed in a few seconds, blood returning to the hole. Victor rested his wider forehead against mine. Our breaths calmed, and slowly my heart slowed down enough.

"Come with me Lyall," Victor says like the claws never happened "I found an apple tree." He threads his hands through mine, careful not to place his fingers between the knuckles.

The apple tree had bright, glowing red orbs bouncing in the breeze. The only downside was the line of rocks around it. Victor gave me a  _whoops_ look - he could and would steep low enough to steal, but thankfully he asked me first.

"Ask first," I say, marking a huge 'X' in the dirt with small rocks, "and if they don't give us anything, then we steal. What happened to the food we took before we left?"

"Uh," Victor looked extremely guilty. I rolled my eyes and start forwards along the rocks. He trailed after me after giving the apples a longing look.

It didn't take long for a gate-like thing appeared around the corner, a pretty, very 1700s house viewing the beautiful view of the valley and mountains. I very nearly closed my hand into a fist again but Victor placed his before I could. My eyes drooped to the ground.

"Hello?" Victor calls, and small, light feet patters throughout the house. The door opened up to a young maid with light brown hair.

"What acquires my assistance?" she asks, eyes not blinking at our filthy clothes.

"Uh, our mother threw us out - is it ok if we take some apples of yours?" I squeak in an adorable voice, making sure to moisture my eyes. It helped that I was much smaller than average for my age. 

The maid blinked and excused herself for a few moments. She returned all prim and proper.

"Yes, you may, but in return you have to do some jobs out the back." the maid bows and directs us to a shed almost as old as the train where wood was to be stored for winter. Victor imminently picks up the axe and whacks it down onto the logs. 

"If you wish," the maid says to me "You could also become a maid for the Master and Lady." I shook my head - that would be a nightmare! 

The maid left after showing us the place to stack the cut logs, which I pick up and do so. I felt like I wasn't doing much as I watch Victor grow sweaty, so I wondered around looking for stuff to do.

There is a load of apples waiting to be sorted from bad and good. I pause there for a few moments, but I move on. It wouldn't do good to break the trust of the Master and Lady. Further along was some old, old gardening tools, looking like nobody had touched them in decades. 

Over in Japan, Amy had picked up gardening because the huge estate she bought in the mountains was not even remotely close to any good shops, so buying groceries had a too much of a strain on her money she limited herself to.

Picking up the rusty shovel and a bucket that was about to fall apart. I totted past Victor who gave me a questioning look. I showed him the results of my hunt and he shrugged, returning to the logs.

Given the state of the tools, it shouldn't have been a shock at the overrun garden. Heaving a huge sigh, I began to hack at the weeds.

The maid returned when the sun had dipped low, just above the mountain and the moon was just showing its face. She'd quietly thanked us for our work and gave us two apples each and a glass of water. Returning to the Ye Ol' Train took sometime - some animal had moved the 'X' made of rocks and the deer track took some time to identify.

The old rag was still there plus Victor's bag that had the food in it. By then the sun was gone, and the warmth with it. Shivering, the two of us leaned against each other to give each other warmth.

 

I woke to see Victor still sleeping next to me. The sun's rays had skimmed the opposite western mountains, painting the sky with the usual pink, red and orange colours, the mountains still a deep blue in the darkness. 

In an effort to keep me entertained while Victor slept I crawled next to the train til I got to the head. Halfway along there was a huge dent with a gigantic tree trunk rotting beside it - obviously that was why the train was abandoned. It took me a few tries but I could finally make out the year it was made, 1810. It must have been quite new when the tree fell on it, nothing else I could think of could attempt to explain the immense rust everywhere on it.

"LYALL!" Victor's voice carried down the mountains, echoing and frightening an unkindness of ravens. 

"I'm fine!" Startled, I cut off my yell. My voice was much, much stronger than ever before. It must have been the healing factor finally kicking in. "Coming!"

Just before I took off, I clenched my fist very, very slowly, gritting my teeth as the claws jumped out at the last second. It would take some time before I could take out one at a time like the Wolverine in the movies.

By the time I met with Victor the claws had disappeared along with any sign of them doing so. 

"You ready for another day of chopping wood?" I ask after Victor worriedly checks for anything wrong with me. I nod and walk past him to the clearing next to the old oak tree, the deer path much more clearly marked out. It took us about the same amount of time to walk back to the house, a little bit faster since we didn't know what the time was.

Once again we knocked on the door, and Maid-chan answered it, actions not as stiff as before. We asked if it was ok if we continued to do the jobs like yesterday, and she nodded, returning to inside. 

The tiny corner I started on grew as time passed on. Maid-chan's personality became more pronounced, as so did Victor's arm muscles. We never got actual money, just food and sometimes clothes. Never did we meet the Master and Lady, and I was fine to keep it like that. 

It was about three months into this new jobs when I woke to the smell of everything. I stumbled out of the train, the smell of rust watering my eyes. Sneezing about ten times in a row woke Victor up but he couldn't do anything has I insisted to continue our jobs through fits.

It wasn't hay fever or any allergies like before, but my sense of smell had just been maximized like an animals, and the rest of my senses followed not long after. Whenever we had showers in the small spring I found during one of my walks in the wild to get used to the powerful senses I practiced clenching and relaxing my fist. Victor did not know of this practice.

The only thing that came out of it was I didn't flinch when they broke out of the skin.

Maid-chan had obviously noticed something off about me, but didn't comment, serving faithfully to her masters. The garden, under my somewhat slack eye, was neat and tidy, but not to a point where you ask if I had a life. 

This was the life I lived until Victor's thirteenth birthday.

I knew that Victor was my half-brother, but he didn't. I knew he would become a baddie in the distant future, but he didn't. I knew he had the healing factor and sharp claw-like nails, but he didn't. 

Maid-chan had been halfway through explaining me what types of roots I could eat in the wild when a sharp yell of pain cracked across the garden. I leaped up before Maid-chan could react and flew to the shed. Victor was standing there with a huge amount of shock at the axe. His finger nails apparently lengthened, and in his stunned state he accidentally brought down the axe too hard.

His mutant power had suddenly decided it was going to activate that day, scaring Maid-chan and the Master and Lady. 

We were sent packing to Maid-chan's tearful goodbye (equivalent to three blinks in a second) and so Victor and I were left in the train to figure out where the hell we're going next. 

Victor said to try the nearest town.

I disagreed. 

"You need to learn how to control your mutant powers Victor." I sigh, "Going to a town full of normal people won't exactly help."

Victor stared at his dirty nails, far bigger and stronger than any normal humans could go. He nodded and sat downtrodden on the edge of the train. 

"But after that, we can go to whatever country you want to go." I smile at Victor's grin, and snuggled down beside him.

Victor was all I had, and while I knew it wouldn't be before long he'd go insane, I treasure it to this day.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The American Civil War is coming up. But first, Lyall has got to enrol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished The Wolverine, X-Men: First Class and Origins: Wolverine and damn as it messed with my plot line. Oh yes, have I mentioned how Origins: Wolverine starts off differently. Plus, Victor's and Logan's relationship is much, much different but let's just leave it to how its Lyall not Logan.  
> Please note I am an Aussie, so either a) tell me if I spell it American/British (I learn spelling by writing and letting the computer correct me) or b) don't annoy me about spelling it wrong.  
> PLEASE ALSO NOTE: I have no clue how the army was run at any time. I'm going off my assumptions and ideas. Great if you could help me. Just don't flame me for having it all wrong.

# Chapter Two

The weird thing about movie clichés is that in some way or another, they’re real. You know how the characters get smashed by these foes that for a weird or wacky reason leave them alive. So they toddle off on this huge training period – sometimes it’s a year, 18 months or even 2 years. So yes, Victor's and I's took much longer than I initially thought it would. 

Victor grunts, snarling at the shredded tree stump. There’s deep gauges, some at least longer than an adult’s hand, some shorter. I sigh, calling my half-brother over for some lunch. He complies, eyes lighting up.

We’ve been living in the middle of nowhere for countless of years. There are trees, trees, bushes, animals, trees and more animals. Patches of water appear every 5 minutes in every direction, all of them cleverly hidden by foliage. Slowly Victor and I have come to terms about our mutation; he thinks we’re the only ones out there in this vast and lonely world. I know different but keep quiet.

Since Victor can’t control his strength even about 7 years later, my hair has grown much longer. There aren’t any mirrors out here. There’s a twist in it – much like the original Wolverine, it looks like I have ears hidden by my hair.

“I give up.” Victor snaps, glaring at his viscous and extensive nails. “Can we leave?” he narrows his eyes, his body leaning forward. He expects me to say no again – I have no clue why I have the last word when he has the last move, but that’s the habit we’ve fallen into.

“Okay,” Victor nearly falls over in shock “Where to sour patch?”

He thinks it over. Obviously, he didn’t think I would say yes for a very long time.

“…America.” He finally decides, heaving himself up. We smile at each other and start down the beaten track to the nearest town.

The town didn’t have a name that I knew of, but everyone there seemed to be cool with us hanging around. It probably had to do something with us bringing in the game when they claim it was too cold. As we move around in town, selling the odds and ends of our collects of stuff we’ve gathered over the years, we sometimes slip that we’re moving away – permanently. The town’s men and woman shrug and bid us goodbye.

The best thing being half-wolf/animal is that our speed, endurance and senses were all extremely boosted. Victor and I can run through a forest much faster an Olympic champion can even vaguely dream of achieving. Our reaction time and processing information is far beyond I can comprehend, so I’m still surprised that we can dodge around startled forest wildlife and sudden branches everywhere like nobody’s business. Victor and I cover a normally 2 week hike to the nearest train station under one.

The tickets are expensive to everyone else but us. The villagers paid us every now and then with real money, and since we don’t need it, it’s piled up in the bottom of our bags. There’s almost no one but us, the train conductor and an ancient lady.

It’s a silent travel except for the rattling of the train over the tracks and the huff and puff of the engine as the conductor shovels coal into it. The lady stares out the window with almost closed eyes and purse clutched in a death grip. I soon fall asleep on Victor’s shoulder.

A screeching sound eases me out of my light sleep smoothly. I blink at the moon hanging low upon the deepening sky, and struggle out of my seat. We’re off that train and onto a much more crowded one in half-an-hour. There are no seats so Victor grips me with one arm, the other steadying us. I lean my forehead against his strong chest, my arms snaking around his waist. My muscles don’t scream at me for standing for hours like Amy’s would.

It was different, I guess, jumping from my slightly demented body to an elderly one to a baby to a sickly one and then finally to this stronger than ever body. I can feel my brain thinking faster and my body replying to my demands stronger than ever, the healing factor kicking in almost every hour. I hit 20 three years ago but it feels like I’ve never aged a day again. That’ll probably be because of the healing factor – it viewed old age (destruction of cells, organs slowly dying) as a disease, and as a result, I couldn’t age. Neither could Victor.

It took us numerous trains, 5 ships and a heck load of walking to arrive at the boarders of America. Usually, you’d be tired as heck, feet sore and back aching, but I was energised. America. Even through this was my second life, I never stepped foot outside of Australia, Japan, Europe and surrounding countries that one time Amy’s family went on a trip over there.

I’d always read about America. The Avengers, Percy Jackson, Harry Potter (wait that was in London. Amy visited Diagon Ally once) were always stationed everywhere but Australia. Amy had asked her mum why nobody cared about Australia but to laugh at their accent even through nobody but the old, old farts used ‘fair dinkum’ and ‘G day’ in their conversations. Mum said it was because Australia didn’t have any impact for anybody and was out of the way.

Amy didn’t want to visit America in her time – pollution thickened the skies back then, even long after it was solved. I didn’t need to worry about that; the healing factor was more than enough to battle the acid in the air.

Instead of the skyscrapers that would appear in 150ish years, and the anti-gravity-and-pollution pods (AGAPs) dotting the heavens everywhere in 200 years, there’s squatting, dirty, grey buildings marching down stiff lanes with a finger’s width gap between them all. The residents look extremely tired, dirt smudges covering them and frail bodies. And that’s only the medium sized towns that housed the train stations into America.

“So what do you want to do?” I ask Victor. He’s handling this like I’d expect him to; he’d shocked that anyone would even want to live here. Victor watches the shrinking town as we made ourselves comfortable again on a train, silently digging his claws into the seats. I could hear the soft rips as the fabric tore apart.

“The army,” he says suddenly, drawing a stray string from the stitching “they’ll have something for us to do.”

“Well, I’ll better get used to acting like a male, soldier.” I smirk, giving him a salute. Victor rolls his eyes.

“You’ll get into the army, somehow or another.” He claims “Weather it would be silently or kicking butts to do so.” I knew I couldn’t fake my gender - unlike how Marvel, DC or any anime/manga likes to portray their female characters, I do not, heaven forbid, have D cups. In fact, I barely have B cups. They’re small, but not enough to cover up. Plus, my face was too feminine to consider.

“I like the kicking butt’s option better.” I tell Victor, falling asleep on his shoulder like normal.

[x]

“How’s it going?” Victor asks as he packs his bag, ready for the army. I’d just returned from another attempt to get it, and like we both predicted, they refused. I flip him off, a symbol apparently still not a widely known sign. He gives me a questioning glance but returns to shoving his stuff into the small bag messily.

“Guess I’ll have to go with plan D.” I sigh, growling like a wolf at the thought. Victor didn’t know what plan D entailed, which I was thankful of. “Where you going?”

“Sergeant Victor Logan leaving by 1200 tomorrow.” He barks out a dog-like laugh, and gave me a heart-warming hug. No more words were exchanged.

Long after Victor had left aboard, I trudged through the 1855 version of New York City. Woman tittered over my apparently too short pants, which came up to my knees. I even think not wearing a dress is bad enough. Men blushed and sneered at my choice of dressing, police eyeing me wearily. It had taken me at least two more physical fights with the police for them to be convinced I was  _not_ to be taken to those ‘you’re a chick dress and act like one’ mental hospitals.

It was at times like these I cursed my healing factor – much like Captain America, no matter how much alcohol I drink, the end of time would arrive sooner than me getting stoned. Here at  _JJ’s Ber Bar_  (an ‘e’ was missing from beer) there was always a line-up of dudes trying to drink me under the table. The manager, JJ himself, was a stereotypical bartender who has a dirty rag hanging from his belt whenever it’s not cleaning a mucky glass, a long beard complete with squinty eyes, and your beers magically appearing in front of you, watching you with uninterested eyes. He didn’t care how I dressed or how many I order as long as I pay.

Beside me is another regular, Kyren. Big beefy legs but slightly skinner arms topped off with low cheekbones and combed brown hair was his most noticeable features as he slouched in the stool next to me. He didn’t know what he was going to do for life. There wasn’t any family business or farm to continue, his dad made sure of that, and all the chances of jobs were scooped up by people long dead.

“Hey,” he sighs, flicking the rusty bug in front of him. Kyren’s head lies sideways on his bludging hands, looking uncomfortable as it feels like. “Was that your 20th try today?” The glass rang as Kyren lightly tapped the glass.

“27th.” JJ corrected, furiously trying to get the decades-dirty glass clean.

“Here’s to my 28th try.” I laugh dryly as I throw back another beer. Kyren groaned and gave me a look.

“Why do you even bother Lyall?” he says and I stay silent. He knew I wouldn’t explain anything, experience born from the last few months, and didn’t push. I knew why – Wolverine was famous for surviving through many wars. Not only did this entertain him through the years, but it bred incredible instincts and fighting skills.

“You should try for the army.” I nudge him after another mug vanished down my throat. Kyren visualised his disgust for the mere thought of it, but his protests died in his throat when I shot him a look.

“How are  _you_ going to get into the army Lyall?” he grumbles, finally sitting up yet still slouched. “Every base can see you’re a girl.”

“Sneak in and secretly train them until they admit to my awesomeness?” I grin wolfishly at the thought. I wave my hand at JJ and in seconds my mug was refilled without me actually seeing it. I swear some people have the most random skills out there. Here in an almost black-market pub, I shouldn’t be so surprised.

“Good luck.” Kyren’s face was all I needed to see to figure out what he thought about plan D. He then high-tails it out of there hoping to not get involved, but 12 hours later I’ve tracked him down and dragged him along with my plans.

We’re hidden in the meagre bushes that are left around here, squatting opposite from the closest army base from New York City. Kyren has asked me innumerable times why I hauled him along, but all he got in return was  _shut up_ and  _shhh!_

“Find any weaknesses in the watch. Just look and observe. Don’t just see.” Finally I tell him, creeping closer to the marching line of men.

“ _What?_ ”

“Never mind, Sherlock reference.”

“I’m not going to bother.” Kyren sighs, hazel eyes squinting towards the base. The heat is not as abusive as outback Australia, but the ceaseless demonic sun squeezes the breath out of your already feeble lungs. The merge shade provided is scarcely helpful – scattered bushes (that is basically a bunch of twigs and petite brown leaves) and dystopian-style desert skeleton trees are all that I can see through the heat waves shimmering in the air.

Several hours later I’ve seen quite a few holes in the defence, however that’s to be expected. It is 1855 after all. Once Kyren and I crawl off to our holes to sleep for the night, I stay awake, staring out the feeble window, if it could be called that. Forests full of greenery and life had vanished long ago, generating space for the millions to come. Broad navy skies painted the background, puny stars cloistered in patches, and the powerful moon was thankfully familiar after 200 years in the past – the stars were too blinding, too many, too  _alien_. An icy breeze curled around the stumpy buildings, too weak and broken to do anything but to fiddle with long hair.

Its several minutes before the tears stop and I slip into Morpheus’ arms.

_I miss mum._

_I miss dad._

_I miss sis._

_I miss Victor._

[x]

It takes us an embarrassing 3 days to pick out a definite loophole. That day was grey all over, from the skies, to our mood and to the colour of the army’s clothes. Kyren was voiceless as we ducked behind a building’s corner – in front of us there’s a patrol man stalking his way to the admin, where the head worked.

Shadowing this guy was entertainingly easy.  Even Kyren, whom not pursued an abundancy of animals for food three times a day for over 15 years, could almost hit two pans together and not attract his attention. We dropped off his trail as soon as we could see an open window, which was, in two seconds flat. The window was for a storage room, and by the dust gathering on the floor, hadn’t been used in donkey’s years.

However footsteps frequently paced the hallway outside and they only ceased when lunch rolled around. I peeked out from the door and observed the silent hall.

To my absolute horror the head’s work place was clearly labelled on the door  _and_ directions every few feet. I slowly twisted the door knob, leaning my ear against the bumpy surface – nothing. Either he’s aware someone’s coming in or he’s not there.

I throw open the door and was relieved that the chair was empty, but I cast my trained eyes around the room. Hand-drawn maps of America, both Yankee and Rebs (the enemy side was pitifully empty), made up the more,  _colourful_  decorations of the brown walls. On the other hand, ancient drawings of the training grounds and various army men slotted around the floor-to-ceiling maps, completing the decorations.

“Hide.” I hiss at Kyren and he stands right behind the door, on the opposite side to where it opens up. I sit the chair both legs over one arm and my back crookedly slouched over the other. Electric yet elegant footsteps were muffed by the colossal door with sophisticated engravings. It swung open, joints not squeaking due to frequent oiling.

I waved obnoxiously at the frozen man, shiny badge present on his chest.

“Are you the head of this place?” I question, delighted at his jumpy reaction. He nodded, obviously pale at the thought of a  _woman_ in an army base.

“W-w-what do you want?” he stammered, and I smirked mysteriously.

“I want to join the army,” I say brightly. His eyes bludged out, and his lips, far too big to consider normal, open to protest. The knife I had in my hand bit into the shoddy bureau, cueing a draining of the head’s blood in his face. “And I  _will._ ”

It takes several tense seconds before the head’s will is back in his grasp. He drew up from his cowering, shivering form to a suspiciously-obese form. His belt nested right over where I guess his belly button would be, the uniform stretching to its limits over his stomach, gluttony (well, for this time period) well displayed.

“I think not. Why don’t you go back home to your sowing, and, train to be a good wife.” He snapped back, an egoistic snarl present on his ruby red chubby like it was the main attraction of a fashion show. I give him a low glare and flick my eyes to Kyren, single eye peeking out to watch the horror show. He swings the heavy door shut behind the head, which jumped at the slight bag of the door shutting behind him.

“I suggest doing what she asks, sir.” He tagged the honorific as an after-though, his thoughts on it clearly revealed on his face. “However, if we have to do this the hard way…”

Kyren palmed a pocketknife, slid it around the fat neck of the guy and held it there. The head gave a strangled shout, sausage-fingers frantically grasping at the air around it. I slink around the desk, coming to stand 5 inches from his face.

“Please, sir, let me stay. You can keep me a secret from your superiors and I can train your men if they permit it.” My voice must have been poisonous, eating away at his will, because he gave a few short nods.

Kyren thankfully kept the blade snug against his throat.

“OKAY! Okay I’ll let you stay! Do what you want – just leave me out of it!” he almost cried. My nose wrinkled when I was met with a rather unwelcome smell from his pants. We must have scared him good.

We vanish with a final glare at the man.

[x]

It's official.

I am the un-official Colonel of Base 3.

Kyren didn't join, much to my disappointment and later relief. In about 1 year, all men had their arses handed to them whenever they'd question my presence. In return, many respected me, and so came to me with their problems as Colonel Stark (no kidding) was a shitty boss, who would rather choose inventing the latest and greatest weapon over the men he was supposed to be whipping up into shape. 

Colonel Stark, that fat man I had to threaten to safely live in the base, had for an unknown reason to become my fan, and eventually. Half the reason why this happened was because I seemed to always be unimpressed with his rifles no matter how much he tries to make them shoot faster, shoot further and more powerful. The other reason was because I was hot. Oh, sorry, that would be 'beautiful.' 

(I always had a problem with using correct, approved-for-this-time, words. Finally I gave up and the soldiers got used to me spewing shit like 'yo' and 'wazzup' - sometimes they would figure out what they meant.)

Currently its 1862 and I wish I could've studied the American Civil War far more. Bah - who was I kidding? I was an Aussie living in Japan. America didn't interest me beyond the newsflashes I'd occasionally get. At least I'll understand who the hell are the Yankees and Rebs now. Men are falling left right and centre, Colonel Stark hasn't stepped foot outside his somehow flashy and rich invention hut at the back of the boundaries, so it left his job to me. 

"Ma'am, the messenger from base 1 has arrived." Turning I face the nervous, sweaty teenager, hands clenching too fast for it to be unimportant. "It's, uh, the head of Defence." The thick wooden walls muffled the sound of my hand smashing it in a fit of outrage. "He says it’s a surprise inspection to see if the soldiers are up to Shenandoah Valley.”

Shenandoah Valley - that was a place nearby Gettysburg, the famous battle wasn't it? One of the perks of record-breaking healing is perfect memory, even ones I forgot beforehand. Amazing for memorizing battle plans and hand-to-hand fighting techniques, not so good when the guys walk around naked. The reason I've not been discovered by the higher ups is because we'd always usher Stark to the office and he'd play head for a while until they're gone. Today, it was too late; I could see Stark talking to an unknown man.

Alex, the poor messenger guy, took in my silence and frown with his usual reaction: expect someone's going to get punished. To his surprise and my slight pleasure, I nodded my head and sent the order for him to be let in. Not even fifteen minutes later a stumpy, sharp faced man stalked in, wearing boots up to his knees and a moustache out of a French town. 

"Where is Howlett? Colonel Stark has explained that the base's order falls to him." he demanded, narrowing his eyes at my feminine body.

"You are looking right at her, sir." I say quietly, fighting to not say 'sexist pig.' Not a good idea when you want to be on his good side. "Please, take a seat." The guest seat was far different from what Stark had before - instead of a lightly plush seat it now has, Stark had nothing installed for important guests. The head expressed his pleasure of this improvement as he relaxed into it.

" _Ma'am,_ " he gritted out, eyeing the maps that were peppered with colourful markings, several far better than they were before "may I ask why you're sitting in Colonel Stark's seat."

"Why, sir, didn't you see the state it was in five years ago? Please remember how horrible and poorly trained the men here were. Ever since I've straightened shit out, this place has been churning out stars and heroes. John Alierh? My doing. Gay Woanf? Also me. Throw a good soldier's name at me and I guarantee I've trained him." I say quietly, short and straight to the point. Spoken words were never my thing - action is my language.

The man (never bothered to learn his name as they always change in every year or so) narrowed his eyes and mulled it over. I really, really hope this guy would bend easily. Politics and diplomacy was and always will be my number one weak point. His rough, calloused hands ran through his hair several times. If he was seriously considering letting me stay here than wow, base 3 was in a much worse state than I believed.

"What are you... skilled in?" he tentatively asked, biting his lip in disgust as I grinned feral.

"Everything but sitting down and talking." I boast, standing up. "Would you like to see?"


	3. 三

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Union is practically worshipping the ground Lyall walks on and the Battle of Gettysburg is in one day - but also with a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you **Guest** who left kudos! Thank you so much! And for all the hits – I’d never think that this would get that many so fast! :3  
>  Please note I am Australian, therefore I don’t know American history very well so please forgive any mistakes I make. I’m trying my very best at learning American history but it’s not going well. Whoever was the General back then, I do not know so it’s going to be General Marth.  
> Man, I suck at writing.

# Chapter Three

“Yo?” I automatically say, turning towards the voice. A messenger boy – with a letter in hand – stumbled on the sticky mud and squeezed through the attentive guards. “Let him through guys. Whadda got for me?” The boy looked barely 10, but with the severe cases of starvation and hunger killing many throughout America, he could be anything.

“A letter, ma’am.” He shyly holds out the mud splattered paper, very neat and sophisticated copperplate writing printed on the front, declaring my name, title and base. While there was no return address, that style of writing was very, very familiar.

_Kyren?_

Frowning, I took it and messily tore it open with the grace of a mid-adolescence boy. Mindlessly I gave the messenger boy a few coins worth $10, not feeling the weight difference. The best thing about not needing food and necessary items is the money builds up fast. Inside the letter was Hamlet by Shakespeare – but with a difference.

T **o** be or not to **be** th **a** t i **s** th **e qu** e **s** tio **n.** **W** het **her** tis n **ob** le **r i** n the m **i** n **d** to suff **er** the **s** ling **s** a **nd** ar **r** o **w** s **of o** u **t** rag **e** ous **f** ort **u** ne or t **o t** a **ke** arms **a** gai **n** st a s **ea** o **f** t **rou** b **l** es **an** d b **y op** p **o** sin **g** en **d** th **e** m? To die, to **sl** eep – No mo **r** e - an **d** by **a** sleep t **o** s **ay** w **e** e **nd t** h **e** h **ea** rtache.

K **y** r **e** n **Ky** ren **K** yre **n** Ky **r** en K **yr** e **n**

The bold letters, to anybody else but me, could be seen as the quill’s ink was a bit slippery and randomly put out more ink than needed. But I knew that Kyren, head of a rich clan-like family, had only the best of the best quills, forced on him by the previous head, his father.

Something was up. It was most certainly a code.

Smiling, I faced the man in front of me as if it was a harmless love letter. Before me was a map I could lay on and they’d still be more room. Pins, sticks, and other tiny sharp items peppered the painfully hand-drawn map, lighting it up in wonderful colours.

General Marth squatted opposite me, twirling his salt and pepper moustache in a way that strike me familiar; it was almost exactly like in the movies about the French. One arm held up his head, placing the elbow on his knee as he leaned forward to contemplate the battlegrounds for tomorrow.

“Where to General?” I say, tucking the note behind my grey shirt that was perfect for sleeping in. It was thin enough to snooze in comfortably and had enough fabric that the men got used to it after a while.

“We go to Gettysburg; if we meet somebody there, draw them to the fields nearby and evacuate the villagers. Make sure you limit the damage on farms and houses, Colonel Howlett.” He replies, deep voice thrumming the air.

“Sir,” I nod, and salute him as we both stood up.

“Go and visit your half-brother and get some sleep.” And with that, he retreats further into the tent to his quarters. I relaxed the salute I’d held until he’d vanished beyond sickly yellow flaps. The guards, barely into the army, salute _me_ as I leave, looking tired and worn. General Marth had been marching the lot of us, Bases 3, 7 and 12 around the country side for quite some time now, and everyone was feeling the effects of it.

Victor was waiting for me outside, quietly chatting with his friend, Hugh, whom looked shockingly like Logan’s actor, Hugh Jackman, only with sun bleached hair and tanner skin. Hugh had enlisted in the army at the same time as Victor, attaching himself on my half-brother until Victor grew used to him and eventually welcomed him.

“Bro,” I grin, watching Hugh as he makes a face at unfamiliar words “how do you feel like fighting in the fields next to Gettysburg?” Victor makes a face, trying to match name to place, and finally gets it with a groan.

“Really? Are you sure?” Hugh almost pleads, bottom lip sticking out.

“I can feel it in the Force.” I say ‘wisely’ nodding and holding my head with my thumb and index finger curled around my chin. My brother and his friend looked at me weirdly like I was a fool and sensibly ignored my last comment.

“Imagine fighting in those muddy fields with civilians screaming like headless chicken and cannons and bullets flying everywhere.” Victor made a face, mindlessly scratching at his orange tuff on his chin.

“Well, you won’t have to imagine anymore because you’ll live it tomorrow. Get some sleep, you’ll need it.” I tell them cheerily, waving them to their pitiful tents. One of the best things about achieving the title of Colonel was a broader tent that was better protected against the elements.

Inside the somewhat safety of my electric blue tent, Kyren’s letter found itself thrown on a wobbly wooden desk with basic writing utensils. I made a face at the innocent looking vibrant white quill and ink pot. Imagine my disgust of going to computers and/or (almost) holograms to feathers you had to dip into ink to write. My style has never been so messier before.

A piece of yellowish paper settled beside Kyren’s, the quill dipped in black ink, ready to write. I support my head with the palm of my left hand, eyes re-reading the passage he sent me over and over.

It would end up to be a long night.

[x]

“Enemies sighted,” I murmur to General Marth as the rush of scouts hurried back to us to report. The Colonels of bases 7 and 12, Leroy Huber and Alfred Hyde respectively pulled up their horses, waiting for General Marth’s order. He arched his eyebrows at me, waiting for anything to happen, nodding in respect when the scouts broke the arch of the hill. They skidded to a halt beside Leroy, the smallest to Alfred. Sure enough, they reinforced my earlier statement, the smallest one having more information as he had a better chance at sneaking around the South’s lines.

General Marth barked out the usual ‘get to your base’ and ‘be prepared for a fight’ adding on sentences that was basically more detailed ones from last night. Leroy, Alfred and I nudged our horses away from the leaving General, quietly chatting about what we’d all expect to happen, and calming each other’s nerves.

I peeled away first as Base 3 was at the front behind General Marth’s. The rows of red, a brown dash signifying our base on everyone’s arms, stood to attention, arms raised in salutes.

“At ease!” I call, tilting Myth, my horse, to a stop. “We have sighted the enemy! Be prepared, check your guns, and clean the rust of your knife. You know the drill.” There was a light rustle of laughter from the ranks.

“However! The villages from Gettysburg need to be evacuated as best as you can. Groups 1 to 5 can do that, but anybody else that has an over-powering, desperate need to help can volunteer. General Marth has asked all of us to stay clear of the farms and houses, as the villages are our first priority _then_ the fight.” I clearly say, thankful of the dead silence. “Alright! Let’s kick some South asses!”

A mild noise rose from the men, quietly as possible to not warn the South our presence, although they probably already did. I grin and swing Myth around to face the front. I lift my arm to wave at a scowling General, grinning at him cheekily.

Not long after that, Lee swung his arm forward, the lines starting forward. A boy had come along to take Myth away, as I requested to fight in as many battles as I could. Myth wouldn’t be able to do much – she wasn’t a Peach Blossom. This meant I marched with the rows as they became jumbled and mixed to confuse archers so they wouldn’t try to pick off the higher grade people.

My stomach rolled at the thought of more death. I hated it, but I’d grown used to it, slaying men left, right and centre one after the other until it became an automatic action. But I feared for my men, Hugh and Victor. Victor could take anything that was thrown at him and he would protect Hugh. However, the humans behind me were basically cannon fodder in the big picture, even if we did feel the blow when thousands of them die in a fight.

A roar – General Marth’s war cry. He’d met the first resistance. Hugh, whom appeared next to me in the last second or so, carefully checked his gun for anything wrong with it. Victor’s heavy hairy hand rested on my shoulder, my softer longer hands lying over his. We all nod at each other and face the front.

“FIGHT!” I bellow, dashing forward into the midst of red and greeny-brown. Answering cries from all around me ring in my ears as I tear down South men one after the other.

Hack, slash, duck and kill. Easy peasy. I’d never imagined killing would be this easy, and I was only half right. While physically it was a walk in the park, the emotion backlash was more than enough to pay up for it. Really, the blood never washes from your hands.

“Ma’am, the villages are gone.” A soldier nervously calls from behind me. I grunt in reply and shoot a man’s brains out. I gesture to the fighting around us.

“Good! Now, get down and dirty soldier!” I yell, ripping off ropes of fabric off my shirt. With my two best knives secured tightly on the back of my hand, so achingly like my claws it hurt, I jumped at the nearest South man, ripping my arm up along his whole body. Bloody bodily items poured everywhere, so disgusting I had to take a moment to take a breath.

A sharp twang in my right thigh notified me of a bullet making its home there. Already I could feel it uncomfortably wiggling outwards, the strange sensation giving me shivers to my bones. The bullet, splattered with my blood, finally fell out of my leg and I was mobile again.

“Lyall,” a man on the ground gasps, a trickle of blood exiting his mouth. He was the one who I just slashed, and the gruesome sight of his guts splattered everywhere made me wish I didn’t do that. “It’s me, Kyren.”

**What?**

“K-Kyren?” I stutter, skidding back to his side. Kyren had grown a mighty beard the six years since I joined the army, and I remember laughing about it in one of our meetings. The black beard was dyed scarlet red, a colour that I used to love, a branch of liver resting on his left cheek.

“Please, kill me.” He gasps, and gestures to his lower body. “I don’t blame you Lyall, I should’ve fought my family more to join you guys.” Then, his letter came rushing back to my mind – it finally made sense. My mind mentally raced through thousands of variations before it finally settled on one;

_I am sorry. My family forced me into this. I am a Reb now._

_Kyren_

“P-please, free the slaves. They’re in your protection now, and do it for anyone else.” Kyren whispers, his speech dropping off into a cough.

I choke back a sob and my eyes watered. “But what about Mary -” I say, my hands scraping the liver off his food-starved cheek. His arms were a lot more beefy than I remembered but his legs still held the trophy of the ‘limb with the most muscle in Kyren’s body.’

Kyren smiles, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye, and doesn’t say anything. I sniff, and rip off the knives. I clench my fist, and voilà, bone claws. Kyren’s eyes widened at the sight of them but before he could say anything, they were buried deep in his heart.

He opened his mouth to say something, but a heart-wrenching amount of blood was spat out. Kyren’s eyes develop a glassy shine to it, and I couldn’t hear him breath. I cry, claws sliding back into my arms. 

Victor crouched down beside me, enveloping me in a hug. He was stabbed and shot countless times, but he didn’t bother making a reaction – he could heal and that’s all that mattered.

“Kyren’s family forced him into this.” I bite bitterly, standing up wobbly with Victor’s help.

“Hugh just died – he took a bullet that he thought I wouldn’t survive.” He snarls, a bloodthirsty grin directed at the Rebs. “Let’s kill them.”

“For freedom,” I firmly say, and look down at my fists. “No secrets, no slavery, no forced decisions. We will protect, I promise you Kyren” I ground out, watching in satisfaction as a South man dies at the hand of my claws. Victor’s finger nails lengthen, his face matching my feral grin.

The Union won the Battle of Gettysburg in two days.

[x]

It feels like I’m in trouble with my parents.

Not the high-and-mighty Elizabeth or my lovely father, but my past-life, mum and dad. Growing up, I’d always ‘steal’ food because I was hungry, never mind the fact it was mum’s or dad’s, meaning they’d _always_ get incredibly furious with me.

Victor was slouched next to me, legs crossed and one arm resting on his legs while holding up his head. I sat straight, legs underneath me fists planted firmly on my thighs, my right hand on top where someone shot me.

“We have reports of Howlett having claws sprouting from your fists over the last two days and numerous accounts of you being shot, _once in the head,_ and still you shrugged it off.” General Marth glowered at us. Behind him was the heads of the army and a few other infamous people such as Abraham. “Would you like to tell us anything?”

Victor looked and me and grunted, not caring what would happen to us. Unlike Victor, I have actual friends in the army, all my emotional ties here and nowhere else to go. So, I decided.

“We’re freaks!” I say brightly, and everyone’s eyebrows shot up. I raised my fist and clenched, feeling the bones come out, waving them around like a stiff limb. Gasps and astounded noises came from behind General Marth, and Victor grudgingly showed his fingernails when I glared at him.

With the skills of a lightning fast animal, I stabbed myself with my claws in the arm, the bones ripping themselves out on the other side. With no emotion, I wrench them out, showing the already healing arm to our audience. Victor did the same, only he stabbed himself in the head (and as payment he passed out cold).

“How does this work?” General Marth demanded, reaching forward to feel the knobbly texture of the bones. “Where do they hide and how do you have them?”

I shrug. “They hide in my forearms and I think it might me in my genes. I donno, we’re both bastard children.” I sigh, letting the claws shrink back into my arm. “Oh yeah, and I think the healing factor won’t let me die from old age either.”

“Quite, I know you’re 31 but you look like you’re in your early 20s.” Abraham agrees from the corner of the log house. He’s actually quite funny, but can be serious at random times, and wasn’t as sexist as others are because of his wife. “Unless you’re not 31…”

“I am 31,” I admit, and poke Victor as he groaned “Victor’s 30.” He finally sits up and yawns.

“We done here?” he grouches, and looks around for Hugh, only to be disappointed. He sighs and heaves up, trotting out of the tent. “See ya, tell me what you’re gonna do with us later.”

I turned back to General Marth, who seemed to be in deep thought.

“I say keep her.” Abraham shrugs. “She’s done nothing wrong, neither has her brother.” Leroy nodded and voiced his agreement. Alfred took some time to argue with but he grudgingly did too as well. Stark was all for me to stay, but one sexist and anti-mutant man called Frank Vang, head of weaponry, violently expressed his desire to end me. He had been a thorn in my side since my discovery, the solidified example of men against female equality.

“Colonel Howlett will stay.” General Marth suddenly says, interrupting Vang’s shouting match with the rest of us. “She has done nothing wrong so she will keep her position along with her brother. Keep this a secret from the rest of the world – it won’t pass these walls.” Vang grumbled, and stormed out. He was absolutely loyal to General Marth so I could count on him not to spread rumours.

As soon as I was let go, I almost fell over in the effort to get the fuck out. The smell in there was horrendous – there was so many smells I couldn’t pick apart anything. Hell, somebody could’ve been bleeding, but I wouldn’t be able to smell it. It’s why I liked to sleep with my tent window open.

I stopped beside the neighbouring lake, a wonderfully deep royal blue with tiny ripples as waves broke on the sandy shore. Then, Kyren’s death jumped out of nowhere, and I croaked back a sob, picking up a flat stone and trying to skim it. It landed in the middle of the lake with a massive splash.

I’d met Kyren’s family once, when I had leave and I had nowhere to sleep except in a miserable forest, and he insisted for me to come. They sniffed at my ratty clothes, scowled at my dirty grinning face, and was outright disgusted when they learnt I was in the army. Thankfully I did not say what side I was on.

There was an upside to it all – I met Kyren’s wife, a German woman with an up-beat personality. Secretly she was a scientist, a biologist to be exact and was amazed at my claws. Mary, that’s her name, obsessed over my claws a lot, she had to be dragged away when I had to leave.

Oh, I’d probably be a monster now to her. From the attaching smells of his body (around the smell of death of course) Kyren had hung around with people, their smells nearby. His friends probably memorised my face and name, telling Kyren’s family and as well as Mary.

Because that’s what I was – a monster. I killed my best friend without effort, without hesitation, and I could’ve looked at his face to recognise him and not murder Kyren.

The self-doubt and hate piled up until I was reduced to a sobbing mess next to the lake, the waters rising round me.

Sometime later, when the water was around my bellybutton when I curl up into a ball, Kyren’s words came back to me – free the slaves and protect anyone who asks.

The depression-like haze cleared somewhat, and I pondered on the words and what I’m going to do with my life. Survive, that’s what, and make sure people don’t die. Protect Rogue, Bobby, John, and all the kids at the school. Free the slaves, destroy racism and sexism, and when you go over to Hiroshima, help as many people you can after the bomb.

As I said the words, pressure weighed down my shoulders and for one second I couldn’t _breathe._ All this, in the next 200 years or so. And that’s not counting if the MCU is real as well or Stark is just a blimp.

“You’ve already cried too much Lyall,” I murmur, and wipe away at the edges of my eyes “come on, Kyren’s left you a job. And hey – jobs are better to do when you like what you’re doing.”

I stretch, and wonder back to my tent, shaking my wet clothes as best I could like a dog.

But, with these plans set out, I felt disgruntled and uninterested. I’ve always hated the word _goal._ It was probably results of 15 years of being told ‘set and achieve your goals’ by my schools– it just murders my will to do anything. To me, ‘goal’ sounds like somebody’s given up, I don’t know why or how I came to that conclusion, I just sat up one day in year 9 and said to my mum ‘I hate the word goal.’

And what I just did – it was goals. I suddenly didn’t want to do it anymore, just lie down and play Solitaire and Clocks.

But I had – and Logan did it too, _without_ knowing what to do. He’d winged it, and here I was, planning it out. Maybe I should wing it too, just like most of my school tests. You’ve been told the information, why should you bother to learn it again? I was a horrible student – it wasn’t up until year 10 I actually knew _how_ to study, I’d winged all of my tests and mostly got As.

And that’s what I’m going to do here – take what you know and squeeze as much information as you can. If someone like Logan can wing it, I can too.

With my imaginary rock out of my boot, and my mind made up, I quietly shuffled back to my tent. Victor was inside, making himself at home. He smiled grimly at me, patting the space next to him on my bed. I flopped down, resting my head on his lap.

“What did they say?” Victor asks after a while. He lied down fully, hands behind his head as he stared up to the ceiling of the tent.

“We can stay.” I answer, lazily drawing circles in his leg hairs.

“So what are going to do?” he sighs, reaching down to rest his left hand on my head, patting me slightly. I stay silent, pausing my taps on his thigh.

“We fight for freedom and protection.” I declare, rolling up to his stomach. “I will free the slaves down in the South and I will utterly destroy racism and sexism into smithereens. And after that? We’ll wing it. Do whatever the heck we want, but always fight for protecting those who you like and love.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.” Victor says snarky, saluting me. I roll my eyes and poke my tongue out. “Orders heard loud and clear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you think of the character development? It's my first try at it - so I don't know if its good or not.  
> Sorry about the future filler-ish chapters, I'm doing it because  
> a) my writing sucks and I want to get it as good as I can before we get onto the real stuff and  
> b) to see how Lyall copes instead of rushing in head first like Logan. Lyall does have the memories of 74ish years so she knows the danger. This won't help in some cases but in others it will.


	4. Yon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s magic in the field, and everyone is looking at Lyall to stop it. Meanwhile, Lyall has to deal with a certain mental illness…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, leaving kudos, commenting, and bookmarking it! Even if you didn’t, thank you for trying!  
> Atkinson is just a town I randomly choose from existing towns in America today. I don’t know if it was around back then.  
> Warning for swearing.

# Chapter Four

We all made that promise to free anybody four years ago, and the Union’s attempt at banning slavery was finally paying off. It was 1865, I knew, and I knew, this was it. The last year, one more  _fucking_ year before I could take a few decades off murdering in cold blood and  _rest._

Even those who didn’t know the future could foresee it. The South’s army was growing weaker and weaker with every blow we trade, and more and more states are siding with the North.

The name of Colonel Howlett derived different emotions and reactions; Yankees drank to my name for protecting my men, the Rebs coward in the presence and both sides spat on it.

 _JJ’s Be r,_ the place where I’d first met Kyren, had cleaned itself up in the years I’d gone. I’m not sure where JJ got the money from, but it replaced the gritty mugs and filthy wood with fashionable shiny cups and well-polished oak benches, and JJ himself had cleaned up his appearance, to even go as far as to _trimming his beard._ Wow.

But it’s still the same old JJ, and he whips out my favorite drink in the time I step through the door. I thank him, enjoying the far better conditions everything was in. My inner mum had gone nuts every time I’d step in here, and she’d finally shut up. Ahhh, inner peace at last.

Alfred and Leroy slide onto the stools on either side of me. They’re out of battle uniform so it’s just plaid polyester pants and a high-grade button up shirt with sleeves long enough to make me wince.

Leroy has recently shaved his beard and sideburns off clean, a style that’s becoming quite popular now that I think about it. I am quite thankful of it anyway; I couldn’t look at some people in the army and not burst out laughing at the ridiculous beards they’ve grown.

“Hello Lyall,” Alfred boredly sighs, flicking his fingers at JJ then at one of the bottles behind him. With a snap of JJ’s arm, a glass appeared in front of Alfred and Leroy in between my blinks. The men laughed, and drank it all in one go.

“Why are you guys here?" I peer at my pseudo-friends, swinging around on the stool so I resting my back on the bar. It was quite early in the evening, as in 3pm, and you could tell by the small groups of men quietly enjoying their drink before getting completely stoned later. A small layer of chatter seemed far too likely the nights I meet up with Kyren, even with the new look. If I close my eyes, the pain starts hurting and I can see the black dog again.

“We have news from the front lines.” Leroy grimly explains “it’s a part where General Marth doesn’t want you going for whatever reasons.”

“So?”

Alfred and Leroy exchange looks.

“They’ve been tales of magic-like abilities. A man who can control fire on the South side has been pushing back our lines too fast for anybody’s comfort but the enemy.”

“…General Marth wants me to go?” I guess, tracing the rim of the glass with my index finger as I shuffled back to face JJ.

“No, we want you to go. Your… factor may help in the fight.” Alfred finally speaks up, grimacing as he does. “We could ask General Marth, but I fear he won’t let you for some time.” And let more people die because of someone who doesn’t believe in paranormal actives? No way in hell am I going to let that happen.

“Sign me up. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve flown past his radar.” The two Colonels blink at the unfamiliar choice of words but shrug it off. “Give me a map and I’ll call in for some more leave.” Alfred picks out a small square of paper and I roll my eyes at the preparedness of it all. They know me well.

They leave, paying JJ their drinks and all I’ve drunk so far. I roll my eyes at their kindness, blocking the want to dump all my money in front of them, far more than anyone here could imagine (and that’s saying much about the economy).

I leave at 6:30pm, picking up the map on the way out and flipping it open. Tonight was supposed to be ‘fucking cold’ to humans, and the weird looks I received because of my shirt and small pants drew attention.

Five backstreet fights later, I finally exited Brooklyn, the emptiness of sound, objects and lights evolving into a buzzing in the back of my head. It was also a full moon, and on top of the stars, the map was piss easy to read. As it was an army chart, the thing was detailed to hell and back, so much I could tell how many bushes I will pass on the way to the lines.

Patting my food pouch, which contained a bottle of water and bread, I figured I was set. Time to fight pixie princess.

[x]

The rumors of the magical ability originated from the front lines a few miles from a monotonous town called Atkinson with a population a tad over 100. The last sighting or report of a fiery and hot dead was only three days since I’d set off, so a week since. Not only did I walk, but I’d finally decide to let my legs rest and catch numerous trains to places everywhere.

Atkinson was made up of indecent rows of rotting houses being hold together by strings of gum and rusty nails. The men there watching me with one eye while they chatted darkly with their mates, and the woman gritted their teeth at my army uniform – obviously my name had reached their ears.

A white fluffy dress with an equally blinding cape stood out from all the rest straight away and it drew my eyes. Hang on – that was Mary! I smile, taking quicker steps towards my friend’s wife. But, something was different. There wasn’t the usual spring in her step, the wondering of her shoes and brilliant smile that could light up even Victor’s emotions.

“Mary?” I say, once I’m behind her, debating to touch on her shoulder but remembers that that’s not right in today’s society and it drops without a second thought. She turns around and I take a second to double take her face and expression.

Last time her face was practically the second sun, glowing with a warm light you’d wish you were cold-blooded for an excuse to bask in the heat. The slight baby fat still existed, cuddling her face comfortably and her emerald green eyes sparkled like gems they were coloured after. Her hair was in a lovely beehive style with the bottom half down, pooling around her neck and shoulders.

That very same strawberry blond hair was a mattered mess with little order. Her chubbiness was stolen, replaced with hallow and high cheek bones, the eyes now a dead, moldy colour.

“Colonel Howlett,” Mary grits out frostily, and turned away. Guilt stabbed my heart – I was a monster to her, to myself. I lower my eyes to the dirt, taking a sudden and great interest in the grimy red dirt under our shoes. “I need to talk to you, outside of town.”

I listen to her trod off angrily, half-listening to the men bicker around me about the growing prices and nearing war lines to Atkinson, worrying about my appearance in this dingy town.

With my super eyes, Mary’s foot prints stand out very clearly, the unique pattern of her personally-made slip on shoes quickly being erased in others. Darting around the sudden boom of people because I _have_ to get to Mary, I _have_ to tell her how much I think I am a monster myself and Kyren’s last words. I _have_ to, I _have_ to.

She waits a far distance from the town of Atkinson, the last few buildings just a dark swab of paint on the horizon. I don’t ask her how she could get here fast enough and last the walk with the delicate shoes because said shoes are ruined and I can see the scrapes and injuries inflicted by just walking here.

“Mary,” I start, and scratch my head in what to say next “… I think myself as a monster as well.”

She doesn’t move. The unwashed, even by today’s standards, blond hair doesn’t sway in the dry wind.

“I didn’t know that you were on the opposite side. Kyren did express his hate in slavery, in several ways to be exact, and I thought…”

I trail off, sniffing, rubbing my hands at my eyes because the tears won’t stop. The salty drops stream down my cheeks and I wail loudly. _Oh my god, Kyren I’m so sorry. Mary I’m so sorry. I can’t forgive myself._

A click.

Mary whips around to shove a gun at my heart. There is no life in the dead eyes, and I’m shocked into silence.

“Shut up Muderer.” She snaps, and pulls the trigger.

I crumple into the dirt, hair spraying everywhere as blood poured out of the hole in my heart. My eyes unfocus and refocus on Mary as she runs away, leaving the rifle next to my ‘dying’ body. Already the wound is closing up, the blood flow screeching to a halt. But I pass out anyway, because it’s _my fault_.

[x]

The first thing I notice when I come to is slobber threating to drop on my face. I launch back, body fully healed even the hours spent under the boarder-line desert sun. Twisting around, I notice it’s nighttime, the chill getting to my bones.

And that’s not the full recount. The temperature was at least below 0°C, and all I can hear is howling wind, far greater than daytime. The sand, however, isn’t moving, and there’s something in the wind that gives me jitters. A whistling sound so fucking high pitched it sets my teeth on edge, and yet soft enough it seems like it comes from all around me.

A dog with scarlet-ruby eyes glittered from just above my knees, the horrifying sight staring at me with hungry eyes. Twisting around its hind legs is wisps and vapors of solidified abyss, eating everything, and widening to larger, angrier clouds rumbling, tumbling and forming out of nowhere. It sickens me, because I know what it means. But I won’t say what it is. No, never.

“Get away from me!” I yell, kicking at the dog. My leg passes through the mentally made illusions like it wasn’t there, and the Grim grinned. Panicked, I scrambled to my feet and ran towards Atkinson, the darker smudge clearing in my automatic night-vision.

The dog skips beside me, the clouds not far behind either. It’s impossible to escape them, I found after several long hours in the desert, so I stubbornly ignore them and start off to find pixie princess again, not entering Atkinson again.

It only takes till sunrise, which I’m guessing was about four hours, to spot the distant flags whipping in the wild wind. The guards carefully eye my uniform and badge before the on-site Lieutenant, Maldonado, to recognize me from the last base 3 to base 7 meeting, a group he was previously assigned to. He welcomes me formally and then personally once inside his tent. The friendship between us if overly familiar faces, unlike the other three colonels, so I’m off to the next camp to recover lost information on pixie princess.

It’s at the third camp I visit that Commander (a rank above Lieutenant, meaning he’s the eyes and ear for the general area) Sosa actually gives it a think and quietly whispers about strange fires breaking out on the fields, and then a sudden great gush of a firenado wiping out 10 at a time. It was deemed too freaky for anyone beyond the area to know of it because only if you see it did you actually believe it.

(One of my many questions is how Leroy and Alfred actually _got_ the information in the first place.)

Grimm, my invisible dog, growled and snarled at the mention of pixie princess although I don’t know how he could understand us at all. Maybe through me? Commander Sosa didn’t know anything more, but did direct me to where the magic occurred the most since it started, a camp that curiously little men inside.

Imagine my surprise to find a Captain holding the camp, Captain Rogers to be exact, a very skinny but with that commanding air about him that nobody else but the General Marth and the Rogers bloodline could achieve.

“We’re going on a raid tomorrow, you’re welcome to join. The paranormal activities have been sighted much more lately, probably because of the rumors of you going around here.” Captain Rogers says, biting his too thin lips in thought. Captain Rogers of today – he wasn’t _holy fuck another Steve!_ but more of a _hey, that hair_ kinda _looks like Steve and so does that jawline…_ he does scare me. What if the MCU _is_ real, but that means I have to save Coulson because he doesn’t need to die, yet Bucky has to get captured by HYDRA so Steve as at least _one_ friend but Bucky didn’t deserve to go through it however how else would Bucky last _70_ years – holy fuck I just realized how _long_ that is – without aging? What about Tony? Does he absolutely need to go to Afaganwhatever to snap out of the Obie-induced haze of bloody creation oh my goddddddd what am I going to _do!_

Deep breaths Lyall, deep breaths, no need to bother your fellow soldiers around you with your ‘delusional’ thoughts, deeeeeeeeeeeep breaths.

The sharp, sudden tang of gun powder and heated metal bullets grounded me, my head clearing in an instant. Not far from me green clashed with murky red, a deeper and darker shade of red coating the muddy ground with ease on both sides.

Then – a strange gale froze the fighting. The green side cheered, raising their guns above their heads and grinning like fools even as my shots blew holes in several enemy men with ease. Then screams erupted across the battlefield even on the enemy side along with brilliant mix of orange, red and yellow flames the sizes of medium Tokyo skyscraper. The blue-tipped edges licked the burning tress and charcoal grass, humans screaming as the heat took over and burnt to a crisp, leaving only smoking bones still dancing in the wild flames.

It was a horrible sight.

Within it all was the eye, a misshapen and malformed circle with a panicking man inside. I stepped as close as I could, sweat swept up in the wind rushing upwards to cool itself down.

“Don’t move! Just wait for this to stop!” The man inside jerks to face me, terror printed and carved onto his face. The shreds of green uniform barely hung to his body but he didn’t show a touch of distaste of my red or long hair features. He stepped forward, a touch of questioning in his stance but he got too close and the fire happily ate him up, his pained and petrified face bringing nightmares to anyone.

And then suddenly the cold rush of bloody cold wind froze everyone. A loud crunch behind me and the North’s front ‘line’ cracked across the battlefield after 10 tense seconds. I relaxed my body and I slumped, face mushed against the sooty ground, feeling the ghastly sensation of cooked blood soaking onto my face and clothes. Slowly but surely my body fixed itself, smoothing burns, hydrating my mouth and destroying any infections.

I struggled to get up after the bones in my legs finally weren’t fragile as hell. Soft white snow fluttered and twisted around me, melting as soon as they touched anything or got too close to the ground.

Another loud crack, closer to me than before. Then something whacks my head to the side, throwing me to the floor. I try to turn over to see who did it, but a heavy weight on my weak rib bones left me gasping for breath on the dirt.

“So, the infamous Colonel Howlett, left for nothing more on the dirt in front of me. Oh, the future Yankees will be singing my name instead of yours.” A voice, far too higher pitched to be naturally allowed, snickered above me. I caught a glimpse of a ratty brown boot before I was forced to the ground again.

“Who are you?” I rasp out, “What do you want?”

“She speaks!” the man laughs, and I have to force myself not to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all “I am the Great and Mighty Luke, controller of all things fire.”

“Well then _Luke_ , mind if you take your boot off my face?” I snap, and I must say, bones healing themselves from outrageously weak to preposterously strong is one _weird_ feeling.

“ _Sir_ Luke! And no, my boot will stay where it is – on dirt.” Pixie princess snarls and I chuckle – I just couldn’t help myself.

“Okay, I can say you got warned.” And then I whip out my arm and dig my nails into his leg. The foot is lifted, accompanied with a girly yelp. I twist over to my belly, smoothly transitioning to crouching in seconds.

Luke is the equivalent to a body builder in 1860s. His chest is about a mile wide and his limbs about half. His head is very, very small, very baby-like face, with little muscle just chubbiness. The white blond hair is a very neatly combed side split with about a litre of gel mixed in. He’s not wearing the usual South uniform, instead wearing the gentleman clothes you’d find in a high-end tea party or walking down Rich People Avenue, a long dress-coat and pressed pants that threated to rip. It looked inertly out of place in the battlefield filled with burnt and foul green and red uniforms.

“Unlady-like!” he snaps and scowls, although it more looks like he’s about to throw a hissy fit. I cough, and bring my hand up to cover it. Luke screws his face up.

“Is that the best insult you can think up?” I huff, standing up fully, still in defense position. I need to delay him as long as possible so my body can reset itself. “Oh, I’ve got one! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!”

Luke looked extremely confused, looking like a stupefied baby.

“Never mind then! So, what do you want?”  A shudder runs through my body as the valuable and essential internal organs of me reassert themselves and the coolness of the cold touches deep inside. Luke grins and my animal instincts stands up and _screams_. I flinch and take a step backwards… and Luke’s body erupts into a flaming charcoal with facial features.

“ **To kill you!** ” His voice booms across the battlefield and the fire swirling around his body burst out, my cloths catching fire, burning away in seconds. The heat cooked me, I couldn’t breathe without hacking up my lungs and I couldn’t _move_ and my skin vanished into the hungry fire too fast to grow back and holy shit that’s my fucking _bone_ there’s my claws attached to my forearm and wow, never thought I’d see a skeleton this way, fascinating how I can still move my fingers even when there was no skin or muscles to hold them together and –

[x]

Twice in one week I found myself to see Grimm literally in front of my face. His head is held up by his front paws, hind legs neatly tucked under his belly, a stance you see many dogs hold when they fall asleep. Grimm’s eyes blinked open and he yawned, huge, white teeth a hair’s breadth from my eyes.

Bones for a hand lied under Grimm’s jawbone, and I twitched my hand only to be horrified when the bones responded instead. I lifted my hand to watch in fascination as ash developed from nowhere to attach to my arm and regrow as new skin. Just to creep myself out, I touched my face to see what bone felt like and man do they feel different from my claws. They’re far smoother than them, but a slight touch of rigidness, cold but warming up to the touch and a strange texture I couldn’t explain in anyway.

I rose shakily, feet testing their new skin, vaguely noticing that I wore no clothes over the fact I was _alive._ Holy hell, only comic-Wolverine survives this, and that’s only when he’s got his metal bones in place. My breath cuts off suddenly when I realize Pixie Princess (his title just got upgraded) is sitting without a care not far from me, back to me. My claws slide out slowly and I take a few steps forward, years of tracking game taking over as I avoided the small and vulnerable items such as charred… _things…_ that could easily break and notify Pixie.

Thank fuck the sun was in Luke’s eyes – that way my shadow didn’t fall over Pixie. He was stupid to do so, but nearly anyone in this era lacked any common sense; I needed to end this without any more damage. With a silent take, I lunge forward and bury my claws into Pixie’s heart. He chokes and I slash upwards, taking care to cut through his spine and bury my other claw in his brain. He dies an abrupt-pain-then-none, nothing compared to what others had experienced, if my reaction a few minutes ago was any proof (and that’s not counting my high pain threshold). I rip my claws out and tear off his overcoat. It’s ruined from my damage on Luke, but I shrug it on anyway as I could hear the sound of reinforcements coming.

Later that night, after I’ve been thanked many times by soldiers North and South alike, I rest on my bed after tugging on the clothes left by long gone men. Everybody had blushed but then I realized that the over coat only reached mid-thigh and even Victor refused to let me wear anything shorter than knee length.

I sigh, and rest, melting into the hard hay-stuffed bedding. I’m almost asleep when I’m suddenly awake yet dead tired. I desperately _need_ to go to sleep, but I can’t, no I’m not worthy wait what am I thinking what the hell go to sleep Lyall but _no_ Kyren is a sleep, I can’t do that I killed him.

My thoughts get mixed and I couldn’t think straight for a couple of hours. Looping around and around the temptation to sleep was battled by guilt and oh dear, I can’t delay denying this.

I’m drowning in depression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I’ve gotten the depression right! Please, if you can tell me about depression or anything, that’ll be an amazing help. I just want to improve my story…  
> Yay, I’m starting to study WW1, get ready for the years in between.


	5. Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ‘hails of arrows’ later, and suddenly the Civil war is over. And Lyall is struggling with her identity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The letter is very important for later in the story – don’t forget it!  
> Plus, I have this very weird feeling saying I’ve mentioned something at the start of a recent chapter that something later makes both of them make no sense. I seem to not find it, so please point it out if you could! (^.^’)

# Chapter Five

_My bro Abraham,_

_I suppose that normal letters start off with the line ‘how does this letter find you’ but I can’t be bothered to do so. Please, when you write back, don’t do it in your fanciest writing – I won’t understand a lick of it!_

_In a fit of ‘being’ stoned, I’ve decided to drunk text you, but it would be more like ‘drunk write.’ Just so you know, that report on me appearing on the lines near Atkinson and killing a man dressed for outside of the battlefield paints me in a dark light so I’ve spontaneously had the urge to explain it to you, as your faithful soldier to her president of the North and later America._

_(We **will** win, I **will** make sure of it.)_

_So the raid started off as normal; shoot, hack and slash. Blah, blah, blah, blood, guts and gore. Then, a strange wind blew up and the Southern soldiers cheered even after I shot a few of them dead. In the time span of a snap of my fingers, fire **exploded**. I won’t go into the gruesome details, but that well-dress lad? That was Pixie Princess. Freak – or mutant, however you view it – much like me, but didn’t have an invincible body or common sense. Cheers for another kill!_

_The rescue men got an eye full of my legs – half-way up my thighs! – because Pixie melted my skin and muscle off during our five minute fight (idiot) and in the end, as well as my clothes. Luckily, my healing factor kicked in and saved me and I ripped off his shirt to cover my parts._

_So, now you know of the truth. Have fun trying to make sense of my ‘messy’ writing!_

_Tata,_

_Colonel Howlett, the first female in the American army._

_PS: I’ll miss you when you’ll die. Please know that it wasn’t me – I wouldn’t kill my friends in these dark times! I only fear that your assumption of the possibility of me defying death even by old age is true. A human, even a mutated one, can’t handle loneness. At least Victor will be there! :D_

[x]

“Grant is coming!” I shout, and flip down from my high perch on the oak tree. “Prepare for battle!” I dodge forward, claws jumping out from my knuckles, and raced towards the advancing troops.

My secret of my claws had gotten out (oops) because not all men when I’d battled Pixie had died or at least had been knocked out. Thus, they’d seen my ‘epic’ and ‘long’ battle with Princess; it wasn’t long before I was confronted. Long story short, Victor’s and I’s mutant abilities were discovered and soon well-known on both sides.

“It’s the freak!” someone shouts as I start hacking at everyone. Instantly, the amount of enemies multiplies by hundreds and I laugh, waving my hand. Beside me, a man’s head explodes as a bullet enters and leaves. Man, I feel so _good_ , I _hate_ guns. Nah, the claws are the best way to go!

It takes a while for the other North’s men to catch up – believe me, I run fast, a big improvement from my last life – but when they do, its mayhem. Finally when the Southern’s retreat horn sounds, we all collapse in exhaustion as the South slowly, all relaxed, walks away, confident that nobody would shoot them.

Howling whistling wind shrieks in my ears and I freak out because the sound is flying to _me_ and a bunch of men were crowded around. Jack, the same one who gave me Kyren’s letter dodges around the dead bodies and sweaty alive men.

“General Grant wishes you to join him when he meets Lee!” he yells, excitement written on his face, and I fear for him. He was only 15 (as I’d found out) and still needed a life but he was getting closer to me and the fucking _arrows –_

When he reaches me, I tuck him under my body and Jack automatically curls into a ball. His face scrunches up in fear and I lurch forward from the force of all the arrows biting into my back. I cough up blood next to Jack’s face and choke back a rattling gasp for air.

Silence falls and I roll off Jack, his face is engraved by pure terror and his hands uselessly hover around my back. One arrow lodged in my elbow twangs with poison, and I growl with annoyance. The arrow gets dug out with the help of my fingers and I wait for the injury to heal – _but it isn’t holy shit what the fuck –_ but after five seconds of panic, it closes up like something zipped it up extremely fast.

I inspect the arrows, frowning when I realize that it’s not Southern arrows or Northern origins. There is a third party out for my blood, and that really unsettles me. But I can’t worry about that know, Jack is here for something, right?

“So,” I say, turning back to Jack as I stretch, arrows hitting the ground with a twang as they fell out “what does General Grant want?”

Jack took several shuddering breaths but got it under control. Even other men looked a bit green at my supposed death, my marled back already looking pale and smooth as a new born baby.

“Uh, Lee had requested a meeting with General Grant.” Jake says, face flushing with anticipation, last minute’s excitement forgotten. “Many think he’s surrendering.”

I huff tiredly, shoving my long fringe back, fingers getting caught on several knots. I rip them out, along with several strands of hair, making a face at the feeling of my hair growing back in seconds.

“Great. Where do I meet him?” I sigh, rolling a few strands of very dark, but on absolute, black hair between my fingers before flicking it over my shoulder. Another hair tie gone.

“He’s waiting for you back at camp; he wants to leave as soon as possible.”

“Tell ‘im I’m coming. Sometime. Soon. Hopefully.” I yawn, feeling suddenly exhausted and tired – not that the last few years of restless nights had been helping. Grimm perked up, bounding around Jack and through him like he wasn’t there.

Time to go.

[x]

 **Malice toward none … charity for all** screams the newsletter for the 16th of April. I drop my china cup, snatching the paper out of Leroy’s hands from across the table.

“Abraham’s dead,” I blink, flicking through the pages with skill. **Lincoln’s dead! Northerns scream for blood!** “That fucker, I told him to live longer than me.” The men around me wince at my choice of words.

“Look on the bright side,” Alfred says far too grimly for what he just said “the wars over, we can go home to our families.”

“My family _is_ here.” I rise my eyebrow, eyes flicking down the table to a very loud, aggressive Victor. “But I _could_ go back to my mother in Canada who views me as a freak.”

“You’re from Canada?”

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, why don’t you tell us more. Say, what the weather like?” General Marth leans forward, picking up the newspaper I’d thrown on the table. I would morn Abraham’s death later.

“Fuck if I know. Ask Victor, I was stuck in bed all the time I was that sick.”

“ _You?”_ Leroy scoffs, leaning back on his chair. “ _Sick?_ We’re all talking about the same person, right?”

“Yeah, you’ve been the sewers and back without getting sick, _three times._ That’s not luck, that’s your healing ability.” Alfred adds, nodding, picking at the rice cracker on his plate.

“She was sick _alllllll_ the time. I swear, she was allergic to even air!” Victor joins in out of nowhere, sliding his arms around my neck gently. “Lyall couldn’t get out of bed without hacking her lungs up.”

“’sept when Thomas killed father.” I dipped my head forward, eyes flicking upwards as I vaguely remember the night from over 15 years ago.

“Except then.” Victor nods, and then I realize everyone’s staring at us. “Is this seriously the first time we’ve talked about our past?”

“Yes.” Everyone answers.

“Huh, look at that.” Victor grunts, taking my alcoholic drink from my table. I stole one of his cigarettes instead. Hey, if I can’t have alcohol, I’ll have the next best thing; smoking. “Hey, do you still have those books you wrote in for a year?”

I blush and duck my head. Everyone starts to egg me on to revealing them and they were slightly suspicious when I gave in so easily. The books are battered, torn almost to shreds and well-loved. When I set both of them down, they crowd around them, faces falling when they couldn’t understand them.

Stark was the only one to get through the Gnommish code, because I pointed out a few words thinking they’d still failed and what do you know, they did. Not five minutes after that the topic moved on to what everyone would be doing after the war was truly over.

Leroy would retire and return to his family on the farm and work there for the rest of his life. Alfred would do the same, only work at the family restaurant, Stark would continue inventing and visit his descendants every now and then and General Marth would stay in the army for as long as possible because his sons had already grown up.

“I plan to give my title to you, Lyall.” He smiles at me, and it leaves me stunned. Logan clearly never got this high in ranks, and how the bloody hell did I achieve this? I wasn’t cut out for it, hell no, I wasn’t for planning and goals, I’d made that clear to my teammates from the moments after Kyren’s death, yet _why –_

Leroy, Stark and Alfred congratulate me, and Victor starts another round of ‘three cheers for Lyall’ as I debated heavily on Marth’s decision, but I was swept away when boisterous laughter broke through my thoughts.

Later, General Marth pulled me aside.

“You may not know this Colonel,” he sighs, rubbing his hands as we watch the flame in the fireplace burn – _my skin oh what lovely bones I have –_ “but you radiate safety. Men, woman, even children, are drawn to you because the utter protection aura you give off. You’ve already done it, but you’ll form friendships that’ll leave everyone else scratching their heads and asking _how?_ Your perfect for this job, but if you don’t want it, I won’t force it on you.”

The depressing thoughts weighed heavily on my mind and Grimm bounced out of the fire randomly, circling around General Marth. Its long time since I’ve tried to break out of depression, and the time now is good to start again.

“Okay,” I breathe, calming my shaking hands cupped around my glass “I can do this. I can. I can?”

“You can Lyall.” General Marth’s hand rests on mine and it is so achingly like the future I barely remember that it’s rude to touch a girl when you’re already married. I sniffle, the small desire to return to my old family suddenly springing up and bursting out of me.

“I want to go home.” I sob, softly so Victor doesn’t hear me. “I want to go home, to Emma, to mum, to dad. I want to go back to 2015.”

Ever so quietly, I crack about my memories and General Marth doesn’t pry to the information of the future. He coxes me to a heavy sleepiness, tears long dried by his hankie and finally after 2 and a half fucking years, I fall into a sleep filled with dreams about my past life and nothing more.

[x]

I shot up, claws drawn and positioned.

Victor reacting accordingly, also jumping up from his bed on the opposite side.

“Whoa,” Victor blinks and relaxes, sitting gently next me on the outrageously fluffy bed. “Don’t worry, we’re at Stark’s home. He offered a place after the party.”

“What party?” I croak, and I gape at Victor when I remember about General Marth – _holy shit I’ve_ never _told someone about that before –_ and I rip the covers off me. I hit the side of the door with full force, launching off the cement/wooden walls without a second thought.

The Stark mansion is still a mansion even in my thoughts, used to the magnificent Japanese styled houses over in traditional Japan. Sometimes I could Victor calling my name from just around the corner and the boom; he’s calling from the other side of the wing.

His voice is full of wonder, a touch of eagerness and fear. It makes sense, I guess, to a mind who’s never, ever, experienced the _massive_ size of the world – the _universe_ , for this tiny, when compared, building resting in an seemingly-unlimiting ocean of vibrant green grass, it _is_ massive. To the mind of someone who’s never seen or even known the man-made Great Wall of China, which you can see from _space_ , the building is the greatest thing ever.

To the mind of someone who’s never physically been _to_ these places, but has the _memories_ , the _knowledge_ , the gut feeling of _yes, I have_ , it’s just a mansion, nothing big.

My legs pause in their frantic running and I stare down at my bare feet. My feet from my last life was pale, barely tanned from my sock line down, but grew winkled and fragile as my age advanced. Nearing 35, age lines should’ve been making their home and presence on my face, and ignoring that, I should’ve been dead ages go since my first fight on the battlefields – heck even when I was learning to control my mutant ability in the forest I should’ve died from when the bear attacked me.

I sank down to the floor and poked my feet. This ‘age-less and unkillable’ was starting to catch up to me, and it was frightening. To live on when everyone I know is _dead._ To live on when everyone dies from prematurely, or natural causes. Oh my god –

“Amy.”

My head whips around and my hair follows. Stark is standing there, arms crossed. I stand shakily, hoping to hell he didn’t say what I thought he said. I rake at my face to grab at the hairs stuck in my face.

“I know, _Amy_ that you know of the future.” Stark trots forwards, eyes still in contact with mine. I was too horrified to tear them away. “I’m a fictional character? You’re a fictional character? What a dreadful lives my descendants will live along with you.”

He stops in front of me and kneels down. His skinny hands rest on my shoulder and he sighs.

“Please, protect them as best as you can. I don’t want Tony to die of his own foolishness.” Stark takes out my two books and lays them on the floor. “Lyall.”

He stands, gives me one sorrowful look and leaves. Moments later, Victor comes around the corner. He’s not used to the oiliness and it obvious as the way he tried to slides to a stop but continues past the corner, swearing and cussing.

I laugh at his attempts, and quickly stuff my two books into my jacket. Victor runs into me, arms rapping around my upper body as soon as he makes contact. One hand comes up to rub the top of my head and I sniff.

“Don’t worry; I’ll get us out of here, where ever the bloody fuck we are.” Victor grumbles into my ear.

“I ran into Stark.” I mumble.

“I don’t trust Stark. Too fascinated with his guns and shit too be bothered with anybody else. I smile when I recall what just happened. This just proved that Starks _do_ love and worry about their family, and just don’t have the social skills to do it themselves, as seen with Howard.

Tony would defiantly hear about his great-as-fuck-grandfather, I will make sure of it.

I laughed again and teased myself out of Victor’s arm. He let go reluctantly. We followed Stark’s smell, now much stronger than anything before. He must have not visited this area much, but I could see very well why.

We arrive at a _huge_ hall, almost like the Great Hall of Hogwarts, just with one very long table with a multitude of seats tucked neatly under. There’s cutlery for each and every seat, absolutely no dust and Stark is sitting at the head seat. Beside him is a very beautiful (and I would say hot but being bi isn’t accepted yet) woman and beside her is a younger man, obviously a son of the woman.

The son is _nothing_ like Howard, his tiny moustache resembling little of his father and soft curve of his cheeks almost a mirror of his mother.

“Hello,” Stark says, head dipping in acknowledgement “this is my wife, Josephine, and my son Hermann Einstein. He has decided to take Josephine’s maiden name, for my older son has taken my last name.”

 _Shit._ The Starks were related to Albert Einstein – Tony would so totally dig on it.

“Uh, hi?” That was a question, and I winced visibly at it. “Not to be rude or anything, but how did we get from the party to here?”

“General Marth came up to me and requested for me to take you in for the next few nights. I agreed and here you are.” Stark waved at the two seats next to Hermann, and I tried to gently lift the seat up so it wouldn’t scratch the valuable floor, but Victor didn’t do it so a horrible, ear-grating noise clawed at everyone’s ears when he dragged it back. The Stark’s wince but I ignore it. It’s far too like battle field noises for me to get affected.

Waiters and waitresses gracefully dance out of side doors with small silver plates of food. Their stiff and prom faces don’t twitch when I quietly thank them.

“Please, eat.” Mrs Stark daintily picks up her fork and cuts neatly into the steak, while I do the same, just a lot more messily and everywhere. Victor – ha, don’t get me started. Living 32 years in etiquette-lacking conditions rewarded him with no manners, just _mess._ Please, just don’t look at him when you’re looking for someone with grace.

The dinner continues on quietly, and before I know it, I’m cornering Stark before we go to bed. He takes us to his study, a homey place with lots of books neatly lining the walls. A grand chandelier hangs silently above the ostentatious desk, a fascinating design meant to capture your attention carved deeply into the wooden frame.

“I, uh, got the idea from the door on the Colonel room in Base 3. I take it you like it.” Stark rounds the desk, drawing the basic wooden chair out from the desk, sitting snugly into the chair. “I’m not here to draw information out about the future or this world’s future. What am I going to do that’ll affect the future?”

“Many things.” I retort, still standing in front of the desk. The light from the chandelier reflects thousands of different shapes and sizes on the golden grain, creating particular and wondrous patterns. It takes my attention for a second before Stark speaks again.

“Oh yes, many things that I’m too old and too settled to deal with. My sons on the other hand… but I’m not going to involve them. In fact, they’ve already formed and developed their own beliefs so it’s far too late.” Stark pauses and I catch on.

“You’re aiming for their children. Why? I’m just a freak, far more than my race.”

“You are a fascinating person Colonel Howlett. _Fascinating._ But it’s not the only reason. As seen by this ‘tag’ on ‘A – Oh – 3,’ something along the lines of ‘Howard Stark’s A+ Parenting’ our family has a hard time expressing our feelings.”

I stay silent, feeling the weight of this already settling on my shoulders.

“We’re a very selfish family, and we have a long and dark history to prove it. I really want to say ‘don’t take this task if you can’t’ but I _can’t -_ I _worry_ for my descendants and its freaking _me_ out honestly.” Stark takes a breath and rests his head in his hands; worry crawling out on his body.

“Please, _please,_ look after our family. I’ll pass the word onto my grandchildren; you’ll always have a safe haven in our arms, _please._ ” I stare as Stark’s head thuds against the desk, a sob or two escaping him. I rush forward and try to lift it.

“I was going to anyway.” I bark, going into Colonel Mode. “Get your head up soldier, the army has no tolerance of baby tears or crying. So I fucking swear on my life, I will do my fucking best at keeping every single person here, in the future, past, ally, neutral or enemy the safest as I possibly could help.” Stark lifts his head to stare at me, a light sheen to his eyes.

“What’s the point of knowledge of the future when you don’t use it to protect everyone else?” I bark, wrenching my hand back to my hip.

Stark bites his lips and smiles.

Later that night, I lie in my bed. Victor’s curled up in the bed next to mine covers tussled and thrown everywhere, dead asleep. My finger taps the softer bed as I try to get to sleep.

I’m certain depression isn’t an issue here, but the slight grumbles Grimm makes is a tad annoying.

It’s the legend, the expectations, the movie the comics and the dreams that I’ve signed myself up to. I could’ve given up on entering the army and waiting for the future to come all dressed in dainty clothes and zilch fighting experience. Heck, I could’ve forgone all the fighting and stayed at the Howlett mansion and never gone out to find out what the gunshot was.

But that _excitement,_ that _anticipation,_ the offer of a better life after a mundane existence nobody needs to know, drew me in. I couldn’t go back now – no, that’s too late, get over it Lyall. You’ve gotta deal with it, starting with the fact you shouldn’t hide your Australian accent.

Logan would’ve ignored Stark, as he would’ve joined Victor in Base 12, and lived on not knowing that he could’ve achieved Colonel, no, _General_ , but never did. He probably lived on, not knowing about the fact he could’ve made a connection with someone and get safe houses all around the world for the future.

All because of a sex change.

Oh yes, even if I have the memories of the future, fem!Logan would’ve achieve a life very similar to the one I’m living right now. The reason why it’s not vastly different is because I’m afraid to bring my memories into this. All the designs are based on the life I’m living _now,_ as Lyall.

Amy wasn’t _me_ since the moment I was reborn. The five years of building my own personality with only the vague knowledge of something greater touching me had built Lyall, not on top of Amy. I wasn’t ‘Lyall but secretly Amy’ I was ‘Lyall + a few bothersome memories from Amy, someone I’m not entirely.’ All the decisions I’ve taken has drawn knowledge from Amy a tad, but Amy didn’t decide Lyall’s life. Amy was someone entirely different from Lyall.

_I wasn’t Amy._

_I was Lyall._

If I was Amy, I wouldn’t have continued on killing, I wouldn’t dive head first into fights without a thought.

But I couldn’t forget Amy. Her knowledge saved me many times, gave me a vague idea of what to do in the future and would save many more lives. I needed Amy, but she was just an impression, personality, beliefs and ideas gone, leaving only raw knowledge.

Taking a deep breath, I kick off the quilts, stumbling over to Victor’s bed and collapsing next to him. His breath cut off, and relaxed when he realized it was me by smell.

“Hey,” he grumbles voice dry.

“Shut up. Let me sleep with you.” I curl my arms around his body and rest my head on his stomach. Okay, this was something I could take from Amy. Resting with your blood was something I could get used to, and Victor better as well.


	6. 六

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“How big is that altogether? How long do you think we’ll be gone?” Victor squints is eyes. I think he’s trying to remember the world map in the White House._   
>  _“A good 20 years,” I grin, “You guys will be old farts by then.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late(r) update; my laptop was taken off me... I tried to write it on my phone but it didn’t feel right. Anyway, thanks for reading! :D All those kudos, favorites, hits, followers, votes, reviews and comments mean the world to me.  
> Jumping suddenly from 34 to 42 reads on Ao3 is a welcome surprise. I am not kidding, **thank you** for reading!  
>  Time skip!

# Chapter Six

“I refuse to take orders from _you_ ,” Sargent Alastair bit, and something inside me snapped. I lash out, decking him right in the face. The bulky man’s nose caved in with the blow and he stumbled back, landing on the floor with a light huff.

 “Just because I’m a female-” I start and clench my fists, bones smoothly sliding out despite the horrible squelching sound of my blood and muscles shifting. The line of men flinched at the sound and balled their hands into fists. I blink, realising what they were so distrustful of. A _mutant._

On screen, the loathing of mutants didn’t really touch the audience’s heart, and they certainly didn’t portray how _hard_ it was for mutants. You’d go, _oh, yeah, hate_ , and leave it at that and focus on how awesome the fights and the Quicksilver scene was.

It’s very much like bullying. I’ve been bullied several times in my youth. Refusing to comply with the school yard rules and who’s-who nonsense, the only _real_ friends were ones I’d picked up and dropped throughout the years. Being an outcast even in high school didn’t affect me at all. Heck, in high school I didn’t even realise I was hated until a classmate told me.

Here, in the 1875 American Army, it’s far more obvious. It’s hard to explain, but it’s more _in your face_. I think it might be because they just whisper behind your back and defy orders more as time goes on.

“It’s because I’m a mutant, huh?” I say bitterly, tolerance finally snapping after a good 3 years. The men nearest me flinch when the claws retract and I spin around, stomping a few paces before plonking down on the floor with a huff.

“Fucking mutant-phobia.” I smash my fist into the ground and yell all my frustration out. “ _You_.”I point to Alastair behind my back without seeing him; he had made a huge noise getting up by scuffing his legs and arms on the beet red dirt. “What is wrong with me?”

“Uh,” his hands cup the air around his nose and he mumbles something unintelligible to even my ears. I tip my head back so I’m looking at the row of soldiers upside down and flick my eyes to the man next to Alastair. He was one, if not _the_ one who started all the disobedience and chit-chat. Sargent Isaac, if I remember correctly. He caught the eye contact and smirked at his mate next to him.

“You’re an abnormality,” he snapped, hate gathering in every pore of his body. “I hate everything about you. You’re not _human,_ no, you’re not the highest on the food chain, you’re worthless, and you’re, a thing, an asset, a _mutant._ ” He grits his teeth and launches forward, lashing out wildly. I fall flat on my back and push my legs over my head and square in his stomach. He doubles over and pauses in pain. Wuss. I flick my legs forward, putting all my force and strength into them and land squatting and one hand on the ground to steady me.

“Fine,” I spat, and kick backwards into his jaw as I stand up and smirk as he keels over, jaw broken. “I’ll file my resignation. Hope you like what’s coming for you, fuckers, the army can’t afford to lose another Major General.”

I left them there, not excusing them from the training, and threw the middle finger over my shoulder at them. Not that it would mean anything to them, but oh well, it just added to my satisfaction of payback.

Commanding General of the Army was William Sherman, a man I’d fought side-by-side in the Civil War, when the marching lines of the army broke in the face of more enemies. Will, as he had asked me to call him, looked like a mix between Logan, my male counterpart, and Tony Stark when the war ended. Now, winkles and a whitening beard covered these facts but there were still that jarring false recognition whenever I see him.

“I fucking hate ignorant humans,” I bit, ignoring the fact that I was one too as I flung the tent door open. “General Sherman, I am applying for resignation.”

“’Bout damn time,” snarled someone, voice far too like sharpening knives to be Will. Sharply turning to the corner with food & snacks squatted the outrageously fat for this time Colonel Ruwinya, a man I reluctantly promoted when I climbed to Brigadier General because there were a limited amount of people who stayed in the army after the war.

He was a wanker right from the start. He didn’t deserve the silver eagle.

“You’re speaking to a higher ranked officer, Colonel, show some respect.” Sherman quietly says, not looking up from the papers clustered around him. I barely squint in the poor light from the lamp, a stark difference from Colonel Ruwinya. He finally finishes the line he was writing and stares into my eyes with dead tired eyes. “Why do you want to resign?” The quill is picked up again, light scratches grating in my ears.

“Because my men refuse to see past the physical.” I say quietly and turn to walk out.

“I can host a ‘The Mutants are Gone’ party tonight!” Colonel Ruwinya gleefully says under his breath, too soft for Sherman to hear. I did, unfortunately for him. “They’re gone, finally!” Ruwinya had guessed correctly that Victor would follow me out of here. It was only my vain attempt of giving humanity a chance that held him back.

I sharply turn on my heels and actually launch myself at Colonel Ruwinya, bone claws burying deep into his elbows.

“Do you really think Victor and I are the only mutants? Ooh, you better watch out fucker, the age of mutants are coming.” I snarl, and immediately wish that I never said that. But I’m on a roll. “That guy that saved you in the Battle of Hatteras Inlet Batteries and died doing so? Sargent Biju was a mutant. Your best friend until he died in the Battle of Chustenahlah? Mutant again. And then, guess what -?”

Shit. Oooh crap. I almost revealed another _live_ mutant! That was a very big no-no in the world of the mutants, however small and wide spread it currently was.

“I’m a mutant too Colonel,” Sherman breaks in; rolling a golf ball sized fireball in between is palms. Ruwinya’s face now is deathly white and submissive. We may actually get him to keep quiet about this. “And your last remark is very offensive and under the army regulations you are kicked out of the army. I’m sure there are younger, more open-minded men out there just _waiting_ to take your place.”

I twist my hand that was buried deep in his elbow agonizingly slowly. A small whimper escaped Ruwinya’s mouth. I’m not sure if it was because of the pain or Sherman bringing his hands closer to Ruwinya’s face.

The heat swells, burning my arm and I’m suddenly back in that field, Pixie Princess sitting away from me as I twitch my bare finger bones. He’s morphed, Luke isn’t a man, he’s a monster taunting me, squishing my burning body into the dirt.

I – I – can’t breathe – I can see my _bones_ – oh my god – fuckfuckfuckfuck –

Suddenly I’m frozen cold, my small breaths escaping in puffs of clouds, unable to move my limbs. I’m like a glacier, unable to move on my own, only with the help of what’s destroying me.

“ _Lyall_ ,” A palm lightly landed on my skin, but it melt in, heat cutting deeply into my state. My healing factor must have reacted with my shell shock and cooled my temperature to an all-time impossible low. The only reason why my body was still going on despite it being far too cold for any human to survive was the same thing that made it this state. “Pixie Princess isn’t here, you killed him,”

 _That’s right,_ some small voice, a little maniac, giggles, and suddenly I’ve got my claws in his brain and men’s voices in the distance as I’m buck-arse nood.

My breath hitches as I try to laugh but my lungs are frozen in cold-mode so it doesn’t work. I still remember the blushes they made even when I had Luke’s coat covering me down to half-way down my thighs.

“Luke could’ve been nice,” I slur when my lung jump start, and I take in greedy amounts of air. “We could’ve been friends. We are, after all, a small group in the population of the world. Mutants vs the humans. Sounds like a shitty TV show.”

Sherman, now coming into focus as my body warmed up, cradled my head in his wide palms, Victor on the other sides, face murderous.

“You knew better than that!” Victor snaps over me at Sherman. Wait, was that Marth? “She’s been refusing to go near fires for over a decade!”

“Ruwinya muttered something that set her off. She told about all the dead mutants he became friendly with and nearly revealed another live mutant. I activated mine to save her skin.” Sherman bit back. Yeah, he and Victor weren’t on the best of terms.

“Guys,” I croak and nearly any movement in my tent faltered. Victor’s head nearly had a whiplash as his head snapped to mine. “Stop fighting. Sherman, it wasn’t your fault.”

“Lyall!” Victor breathes a sigh of relief “You’re not murmuring nonsense anymore!”

“Your mother was hamster and your father smelt of elderberries,” I say automatically in challenge and the reaction from Sherman and Victor was immediate. Raised eye brows. Confused looks.

“What?” Victor asks, but Marth comes back into view and carries on like I never said anything.

“Sherman has told me you came into the building to resign.” He asks softly, like he knew this was coming.

“He told you right.” My body was loosening up, my mouth the most by how much I’m using it right now. “Sargent Alastair talked back and when I asked him why he didn’t like mutants, Sargent Isaac stepped in.” It was made clear I refused to say what he said by everybody’s frown.

“I’ll have them doing punishment rounds tomorrow.” Sherman gives me a glare before I could defend them. I raise my eyebrow; I wasn’t nice like that.

“Fan-fucking-tastic, we can finally leave.” Victor is far too elastic for a man that had served over 10 years in the army. “Where to now? I want to see Canada again.”

“Check out the Mansion, maybe?” I say without thinking and wince “No, not there. How about South America?”

“And do what?” Victor asks, puzzled. “There’s nothing down there.”

I shake my head and gingerly pull my top half up to a sitting position, legs tucked under my body. I rest my hands unconsciously on my thighs. Living in Japan really forces you to get used to holding this positon for hours.

“Well, we could always sail across the sea to visit Europe and laugh at the poms, or go further and sneak into China or even Japan…” I sigh in memories. I don’t think Japan was in the ‘ _yes, yes, visitors, yes!’_ mode right now… isn’t Japan denying any outside contact right now?

“Japan?” Sherman muttered, frowning. I swear I saw a lightbulb go off above his head when he remembered.

“How big is that altogether? How long do you think we’ll be gone?” Victor squints is eyes. I think he’s trying to remember that world map in the White House.

“A good 20 years,” I grin, “You guys will be old farts by then,” Sherman and Marth just snort and shake their heads.

[x]

Goodbye is short and painful yet still easy. Stark had his wife came along to wave us farewell, probably for the very last time. They were well into their 30s, edging nearer to 40, equal to waiting to die in my childhood.

Just before we step onto the ship, Stark hands me a paper out of everyone else’s ear shots.

“These are all the Stark families in touch with us. You can choose to visit them; but it will be very painful when they die.” He quietly speaks as I slip the paper into my dress robe pockets. I was trying, and most likely failing, to look like a man with long hair.

“I think I’ll need the human contact when they’re not scared for their lives or screaming in pain,” I whisper under my breath and give Stark a half-hug. “Stay gold, Ponyboy,” I grin at Stark, inwardly chuckling when he becomes confused.

“Oh! Yes, the Outsiders, I remember,” He looked pleased that he understood a reference. I guess you would, when it’s from the future.

“ _Lyall!_ ” Victor calls from the boat, tugging at his tight cuffs in impatience. “Come on, let’s _go._ ”

In a few short moments the boat’s wooden floors are rocking under my feet, the hard railing cutting into my arms as I lean over and watch the dock shrink.

“Last we’ll see of ‘em.” Victor grins, sounding startlingly Australian. Whoops, guess he got that from me when we had no contact in the forests of Canada. I shrug in reply, and wish very badly it was socially acceptable to lean against the rail and slide down it to sit.

I slowly migrate from the larboard ramp to the bow, Victor trailing after me like a wild puppy, uncaring about the cold weather although the rest of the passengers save the crew have moved inside. The erratic rocking of the ship against the consistent pound of waves shook any chance of sleep from my body and most certainly Victor’s.

A good hour or so later, when the sun was nearing 12 o’clock in the morning, Victor slid his elbow over the rough carving of the ship’s railing to nudge mine.

“What are we going to do?” He asks, eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of land. “I mean, you just said ‘across the sea there is more.’”

I pause, thinking about what I’m going to say.

“Well, we could learn another language for one,” I start “We could see the old villages of times longggg gone,”

“Ew,” Victor winkles his nose and I shake my head with a small laugh. And idea came to my head.

“Or, we could scavenge the lands searching for more mutants.”

“What for?”

“Well, as far as we’re concerned, it’s only Marth, Sherman, us and the few who died in the War who are mutants.” I start, slowly getting excited, The Idea, with capitals, spreading and conceiving in my mind. “What if there’s _more_? What if they’re hated too? What if they think they’re the _only_ people out there like them?”

Victor pauses, and thinks about how mum practically banished me from the house that night. His face goes soft and rest his head sideways facing me on his folded arms.

“I like it,” he grins wolfishly “what do we do when we find them?”

Oops, um, haven’t got to that bit yet.

“Enroll them in some kind of organization, maybe.” I light up. “The World Mutant Protection Legion.”

“The WMPL?” Victor chuckles and pats me on the back. “I could go with it. What would they do?”

“Find other mutants, tell them that they’re _not_ alone, list their abilities, name and it would keep on going until every one’s found.” I smile, eager to start this whole thing. Shame nobody on the ship is a mutant, at least, I couldn’t tell by smell.

“And you’d be the leader.” Victor nods like he just made the wisest choice ever. The expression on my face crumpled.

“Victor, I’m not a good choice,” I sigh, twisting so the bottom of my spine leaned against the railing. My half-brother looked over his shoulder to give me a look.

“You _are._ How do you think so many people survived in the Civil War? You guided them to beyond what you think, some people back there,” he jerked his thumb to the stern “still sing songs and tell stories to their children about you, Lyall. You’re a hero to them.”

I bit my lip, not really wanting to give in. “I – I – don’t know.”

“You’re going to be the best Director of the WMPL the world will ever know and the whole time I’ll still be your brother and be right behind you. The Legion will take the world by storm without it even knowing.” Victor wraps his arms tight around my shoulders and squeezes. “I’ll make sure of it.”

I grip my hands on one of his arms, dreading the days that will turn him into the bloodthirsty Sabretooth.

[x]

The captain slouched next to the gate leading down the bridge to Europe’s land. We were the last to get off as the crew had taken a liking to us though out the long weeks and hosted a short goodbye party under the deck that mostly consisted of one huge drinking contest as the rest of the passengers disembarked off _The Soldier Sailor._ The rest of the crew had passed out below as we calmly took the stairs up and without a hint of the wild party trotted off to leave the ship.

“Hey.” The captain whispers as we were about to pass him. “You’re looking for mutants, right?”

I turn to sharply look him in the eyes. If he dares to tell anyone –

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell another human soul.” He captain sighs, slouching back into the hard rails. “My brother is one of you guys. You can check him and his other mutant buddies out at this address.” Another slip of paper was handed to me, but Victor took it this time with a wary glare.

“Heard you chatting about the World Mutant Protection Legion over the trip.” He smiles, warmly, like we’d just brought Christmas early. “My brother has a hard time finding friends with his appearance. I’m really the only human who talks to him.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly, and pat his forearms, taking a step forward off the ship onto the bridge. “The WMPL will hopefully be successful.”

 _The Soldier Sailor_ was soon covered by lined up houses with English men in black suits and woman with the ballroom gowns swarming my vision and soon taking our attention. The port was a nightmare, and the further into the heart of London was no exception.

If we’d been human, Victor and I would’ve been shivering from the cold, miserable from the cold and angry from the restless nights on the ship. But, just to prove our freakishness, nothing affected us other than the everyday pickpocket and the arseholes we came across.

“How much money do we have left?” Victor murmurs him my ear, bending down to do so. He looks rather imitating like that, hunched over, and the lack of thieves is evidence. I peak into the overcoat I have and thumb over the sheets of paper Stark had no hesitation handing over. There is, what, a good US$25 dollars in there, a _huge_ amount in US.

“Good for a month or four in New York’s poor hotels. I don’t know how much that would be since we still need to exchange it to pounds.” I winkle my nose at the mention of the money. Ugh, another set of currency I have to learn.

“Is that a bank?” Victor squints at the Customs House and something clicks inside of my head. Didn’t Amy’s grandfather build a hotel near one of these?

"Aren't we supposed to pay something in there?" I ask myself more than Victor, who shrugs. I eye the human traffic between us and the Customs House and debate inside my head of what to do. Do it now, when there’s thousands of people shoving their way in, or later, when there’s not so many people.

"Let's do it later," I tell Victor, weaving in between the bodies to an edge of a random building, leaning against it to get out of the push. If we didn't have super hearing, I doubt we would've heard each other. Thank god in the War we learnt how to push mundane noises out of our heads and focus on the important ones; otherwise we would be screaming from the pain. "What does the slip say?"

"Uh, are you seriously considering going to a place we've never heard of let alone been to?" Victor gives me a look and I grin. 

"Why not? If it's a trap, then we can fight ourselves out no worries." Victor tilts to the side to access the pocket stitched onto his pants, his hand squeezing into the small opening. Slowly but surely the paper made its way to my fingers. "It’s a map, not an address" I tell Victor in relief and turn it around a few times. One roughly drawn rectangle was called  _The Butcher, the Baker, the Candlestick Maker_ , which was just across the street. I squint at the map and survey our surroundings as Victor watches out for pickpockets. 

"This..." I wave my index finger around the top of my head and pointed in the hopefully correct direction. "...way! Onwards, my friends!" 

I take a step off the gutter of the street and let myself be carried by the force of the crowd, stumbling every now and then when the speed picked up or lurched. Victor disappeared in my vision and appeared several times, looking more annoyed each time. I finally make my way to the side of the 'current' where there weren't as much people. I stumbled out onto an alley called  _Joan St._ and glance around. Sure enough, there was the pub called  _That Pub on Joan St._  and a low hum of human voices creep out under from the door the same name as the one on the paper.

"Lyall!" Victor calls, looking rather ruffled from the trip. He looks  _extremely_ pissed now. 

"What took you so long?" I ask him as he straightens his clothes as best he could, but doesn’t tuck his shirt into his pants. Whoops, another trait picked up from me. "Tidy up Victor, we're going into a pub with a good reputation."

And then I stride straight into the pub without a care about the possible danger.


	7. 七

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are 6 mutants in the cellar of That Pub on Joan’s Street. It's the beginning of something big, and long-lasting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’M SO EXCITED!! Another kudo!!! Osiufhsodfnsdiufhghw thank you **guest ******!!! XD XD XD  
>  So sorry for the long wait I'm so excited for this story just the last part of the chapter struggled to get out. There may be references that make no sense so please let me know! Ugh, my writing is so terrible...

# Chapter Seven

In the movies, because, you know, they’re so totallyright, as soon as the main protagonist steps into a bar, a pub, or a tavern, the whole occupants pause in the middle of drinking and turn to eye the newcomer with a death stare.

 _That Pub on Joan St_ was a well-lit, fashionably furnished to the age’s standards, and clean utensils. The drinks sourced from an island in the middle of the pub, an average sized man with an ordinary beard and closely cropped brown hair, and a black-and-brown uniform. Appearances scream boring, but his smell stank of dried bones and nothing else. He was a mutant hiding in plain sight.

Victor smelt it too. He nudged me, and headed straight for the bar. He sat down and quietly made a conversation with the nearest barkeeper, a younger boy with a far too thick upper lip and humongous buckteeth to be considered handsome, waiting for the bone-man to come around.

I slide in the seat next to the young boy and get hit by a smell of female hormones almost overwhelmed by the stronger male scent. Jesus fuck, _two_ mutants? Excitement prickled the back of my neck, and I almost jumped up and down like the day a book was published. _Two_ mutants, on the first day we set foot in another land. Elastic was a little underestimation.

“Hey,” the Russian-accent sourced from a man that stank of dry bone and had just as skinny arms (it reminded me of those African children who’ve never ate in their life at all, they were that skinny. Wait, were those his _legs?_ ) slid along the rich brown ebony wood, careful not to actually touch it with his waist. Otherwise I’m sure I would’ve expected a grinding noise. “What do you want to drink?”

“Do you accept dollars?” I slyly say, hand diving in between my collar to place my fingers over the sheets of notes. The man eyed my chest, spotting the slight bump and put two and two together. He sighed and shook his head. I lace my fingers, placing the pads of my fingers just before where my claws emerge. “How about people like _you_ and your female-male buddy?” A millimetre of bone claws broke the outer skin, slowly inching forward.

A caught breath. The man stiffly nodded and whipped it up, placing it before me. I turn my head to Victor and he winked at me, nails far longer than they were seconds ago. We had done the same thing, and hilariously almost at the same time. Gripping the rough wooden handle of the jug-sized bo’le (sometimes the era’s words just stuck to my head, no matter how much I tried to give everybody mine) Victor slid across the three stools between us, bumping his cup with mine.

“Cheers big ears,” I smile almost giddily at my half-brother.

“Same goes big toes,” he chants back, remembering all the times I would say that back to him, and tips back his cup at the same time as me, weak liquid sloshing down the sides into our mouths.

Bone and Fe-male refused to make any conversation with the two of us beyond the occasional bar-tending questions. Time wasn’t a problem for us, we’d quietly draw nuts-and-crosses games on my skin using Victor’s fingers and laughed about the few and far between fun times in the Civil war, mainly consisting of stories about Victor beating up a sexist pig in the army after every promotion I receive.

The rest of the population were ushered out around 10pm, the two mutants slowly cleaning up as Victor and I sat in the stools and quietly fooled around with our healing factor.

“Right,” Fe-male sighed, flicking the poor lock on the cleaning storage shut with a barely noticeable flick of his wrist. “What do you want, coming in here and telling us we’re mutants?”

“Well,” Victor drawls and I silently let him have this one. Being the Major-General of the American Army requires lots of political experience, stuffy people on top of racist morons. Victor, for once, can do it. “It’s not hard, Fe-male,” Victor stresses the hyphen by drawing out the ‘e’ “ _you_ stink of female stench, far stronger than any male could even do and Mr Bone here has toothpicks for arms and legs and his smell like dried white stuff you find in warzones months after the battle happens.”

Fe-male and Bone bite their lips, Fe-male’s bottom lip disappearing under the far larger one and an odd sound reasoning from the grinding ( _??!!_ ) of Bone’s mouth. I quirked my eye brow at them, feeling the no need of words just fine enough. They had admitted they were mutants, and accepted that we were too.

“And what _if_ we are mutants? Why would we want to tell you?” Fe-male snaps, fingers clenching into fists, arms ridged by his waist. Like we were memorized by a spell, our personal weapons stabbed each other in the chest. We refused to filch at the feeling of something burying in our chests. A speeding bullet was far worst.

With a squelching noise, I drew back my claws from Victor’s chest taking time to show the two strangers my bloody ‘extra’ bones, neither of their faces flinching; although Fe-male did go a little pale. So Bone was used to blood.

“What’s your name?” I smile brightly at them, a shocking difference to the smirks I had sent them the whole night. “I’ve been calling you Bone and Fe-male the whole time. I don’t think your parents called you that.”

“Gerrant, and he’s Lucius,” Bones mutters quietly as Fe-male, now known as Lucius, bends down sideways, groping at something under the bar. A loud _clunk_ cracked, gone as it soon started. It sounded far too like a gun on the battlefield, and that was the reason why my claws were out and Victor clicked into a defence stance.

“Come,” grunts Gerrant, Russian accent thicker in his rolling emotions. I couldn’t pin what emotion, but it certainly affected his voice. I keep my laughter to myself, and instead grip Victor’s thick sleeves at the wrist and forcibly drag his unwilling body to the hole in the floor, following Gerrant and Lucius.

Under the pub is a perfectly fine, lit cellar with no touch of creepiness. Two other men are facing their backs to us as they slump over a medium sized table, a deck of cards neatly lined up.

“David,” Lucius snaps, “Why didn’t you tell me that these two were coming?”

“Because you told me to stay away from your brother,” grits out a man with sideburns and outrageous blond hair. Violent purple hair shifted next to him, a face the colour of an apple turning in surprise to stare at us, the newcomers.

Lucius is suspiciously quiet. Bad blood? That didn’t seem like it when the captain spoke of his brother.

“Zxyzzrx, please call me Z.” smiles the outrageously coloured man, friendly vibes radiating from his – wait were those _blue arms??_ Was this Kurt’s relative?

“Lyall Howlett and Victor Creed. We’re half-siblings.” I introduce, letting my fingers go from Victor’s sleeve, letting it drop to my side.

"Yes," David grunts, glass clenched in his hand mumbled into the table "I know." 

"Sorry, David just has a hard time coping with his mutation." Z breezily grins at his friend, “he can see everything in the past.” David coughs, lifting his grey shelled head to look at me with baggy eyes. Ooh, yeah, that would suck. Lots. I turn to Gerrant and his arm blurs and fades, leaving bone.

I am not kidding; nothing holding the white substance together but air. It takes me back to Luke, skin inching its way up my bones to regrow, but his skin doesn’t.

“I’m completely bone. My body will continue on, but acts like I _do_ have muscle, skin and blood.” Gerrant flexes his fingers grimly, staring down at them with hate. “I hate my mutation.”

I take a few shuffles forward and offer him my hand. “Nice to meet you,” I grin, evident that I was just far too used to the bloody remains from the Civil War. Gerrant mumbles something in reply, blank face not betraying a single feeling. But he offers his bone hand anyway and firmly shakes it, my baby-smooth skin barely catching on the somewhat rough surface of Gerrant’s true look.

“I can… change gender…” Lucius stiffly says (oh, that explains the hormones), biting his fingers into the skin of his palms. He’s waiting for something, a melange of negative connotations. I flinch inwardly. Why were mutants so hated? We’re just humans + X gene. I turn my body to face Lucius, eagerly holding out my hand to Lucius.

“Being a guy would be _cool_ as.” Lucius did indeed pick up on my hidden message, and bit his lower lip again. Obviously changing another person’s gender was really hard or I was the first to ask him.

“So what can you do Z?” Victor gruffly snaps at the now khaki green tinged man as Lucius shyly slides his hand into mine.

“I don’t know if this’ll hurt,” he warns softly and closes his eyes. “You’re the first person I’ve done it on.” I smile at him even though he can’t see it.

“I can conceive illusions whenever I want. It’s how I can help other mutants hide their physical attributions.” Z replies as something trembles under Lucius’ skin; it reaches mine and seeps into it.

Abruptly it draws away, his hand now sweating from the effort. Or should I say, she, since Lucius had huge lumps on her chest, thinner arms and clothes hanging off her once-buff shoulders. Her face was a little softer now; the top lip was now at a normal size.

“Meet Lucy,” she pants, stumbling back into a chair one of her mates drew out. “Sorry it didn’t work; ran out of energy.” But I think we both knew that it wasn’t from lack of energy; it was the fear of hate if she couldn’t transform me back, the fear humans installed in her, the fear to show what she _can_ do.

“Don’t worry,” I shrug, flexing my fingers before clenching them “Took me a long time to learn how to control these.” Z took in a sharp breath as the bones took their time squeezing themselves out of my arm, a few drops of blood landing on the cobblestone floor.

“Wow,” Z breathes, and turns to Victor with starry eyes. “What can you do?” Victor smirks and his index finger nail grows. He drags it down the nearest wooden wall, carving a deep ‘V’ into it, a stark difference from all the shallow half-arsed lines.

The men (and woman) made approving noises and patted us both on the back. We smile. This was far more different than when Marth and Sherman told us of their powers; they hated theirs, afraid of showing them at all, and detested and envied at the same time with our ease of showing our mutant side.

“And we both have incredible, super-fast, healing factors.” Victor throws on the end, demonstrating when he draws a bloody line on my arm as I stab him in the leg with my claws. Yeah, that _is_ actually charted. We did… kinda… make deal to do this whenever our abilities came up.

“Z, how do you make illusions?” I ask, because “dude, how useful is that? You could do _so_ much…”

“I… can’t exactly explain it. Can’t do it with more than 1 person, I’m afraid, so it’s useless when a group of people attack you, and you can’t feel the illusions.” Z sighs, a face of wonder as he explores the impossible possibilities. I turn to him, hopeful. He shakes his head in amusement and squeezes his eyes shut.

And something _shifted_ inside me. The real world fades into this sea of aqua green, badly-drawn fish darting around me and my hair floats in the so-called sea like I’m diving. I laugh and reach out to touch the fish but it darts out of reach. I sway in the imaginary current, limbs weighing nothing as the ocean carries me around.

“That was is _epic._ ” I breathe when the strange feeling in my gut fades and I’ve returned to the cellar under the _That Pub on Joan St._ with David, Lucy, Victor and Z. Z looks away awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head. “Victor, Victor, you should do it,”

“ **No**.” Victor grows, crossing his arms hotly. “I am perfectly fine with the way I see the world, thank you very much.” I pout and mutter _spoil sport_ under my breath and turn back to Lucy and Z.

There are six mutants here. _There are **six** mutants here. _ Excitement poured from every single pore of my body. Holy fuck, there’s _six_ mutants here. I can’t resist to let out a giddy giggle, bouncing, and letting out a small squeal. “Victor,” I breathe, “There’s _six_ mutants here!” Victor can link to my exhilaration, a bright smile, not a smirk or a grin, lighting up his face. He nods, resting his large hands on my shoulder. Even through I’m far taller for an average woman even in Amy’s era, my younger half-brother still towers over me.

“ _Two_ other mutants??” Z jumps up, rushing over to cup my hands in his. His skin is swirling with so many colours it makes my head dizzy. “Oooh, please introduce us!!”

“Sorry,” I sigh mournfully, “they’re back in America.”

Victor nudges me. I bite my lip and tug my lightly sweaty hands out of Z’s slack hands.

“What are their mutations?”

I cast my eyes downwards. “We’ve agreed not to tell anyone about our mutants unless they agree to. Victor and I grew up in Canadian woods after his thirteenth birthday; we weren’t on the receiving end of teratophobia and subsequently, not afraid to show our abilities.”

“Wait, you grew up in Canadia? In a _forest?_ ” Lucy eyes my fingers as I tug on the stiff sleeve of my Victorian jacket.

“Uh, yeah.”

“No wonder you’re so barbaric and awkward in those clothes.” Lucy slaps away my hands fingering the edges of my pockets to slip my aching thumbs inside, resting. “If you want to parade as a man, you need to learn how to. And, on top of that, how to be a woman.”

“Ew,” I winkle my nose and cheekily wink at Victor, twisting my head over my shoulder to look at him. “But I don’t want to become a civilised human (or mutant) with manners.”

“I’ll make you,” Lucy threatens half-heartedly, poking me in the chest playfully. It was under no illusion that Victor and I could easily take down all four of them in a snap.

“Okay, but you have to agree to join the WMPL, all of you. And possibly get it going.” I wait for the outburst.

“Wait, what?” Z asks, puzzled. I could almost see the Rubik cube forming in his hand. Oh yeah, an actual master of illusions. _Duh._

“There is, another, reason why Lucius’, sorry, Lucy’s, brother gave us your pub’s address.” I start and a deathly silence descends on the group. I’m afraid to look them in the eye. What if nobody will accept our idea? With a great big breath, I force out “WouldyouliketojointheWorldMutantProtectionLegion?” in one go.

“The _what?_ ” Gerrant snaps, Z’s illusion not betraying anything on his friend’s face. I mean, yeah, that was easy to figure out when Z explained his tricks.

“Yes,” David firmly looks me in the eye. “It’s a wonderful idea Lyall. Only foolish, idiotic people with no sense of self-preservation will not join it.”

Z brightens at his past-seeing friend. “Can I join? David’s always true about good stuff, even if we’ve never seen or heard of it before.”

“What is it,” Lucy quietly murmurs murderously, and I rub my hands together, nervous as fuck. “Tell me, _what it is._ ” Lucy’s voice is almost pleading. Did her brother do something to her? Hate her ability? Ooh boy sometimes I just hate our sibling species. I just can’t convince people to open up when they’ve denied their biological function their whole life.

“It’s an organisation, for mutants, of course, uh, it’s still on the drawing board. The Captain of _The Soldier Sailor_ overheard us talking about it and agreed with us. I’m hoping to extend the awareness to other mutants, without any human knowledge, that they’re not alone, that it’s okay to be a freak, and to see how many mutants there _are_ in the world and everyone’s abilities.” I smile warmly at the thought yet I’m met with silence.

“Why do you think it’s going to work?” grumbles Gerrant, still serious as normal. It’s strange yet amazingly cool watching Gerrant, when his mouth opens a little bit and you can’t see anything inside except darkness. His and Z’s mutation are fascinating.

“Because this is an example of how desperate we are for proof that the six of us are not the only mutants in the _entire_ world.” Victor snaps, coming down from standing guard at the staircases if the four of them go nuts for some unknown reason to stand shoulder to shoulder to me, chest puffed out in defense. “Did you not see how Lyall and Z reacted to a measly _six_ of us in one room? _Jeeze, six…”_ Victor mumbles the last two words to himself, only I identifying the enthusiastic shock hidden in his body language.

Gerrant and Lucy glare down at the floor. Well, I’m assuming Gerrant did. All he did was tilt his head downwards. His facial features were frozen in a blank state.

“How sure are you that this’ll work?” Lucy demands.

“It always seems impossible until it is done.”

Lucy quietens. Blinking, I see that she _does_ want this to happen but –

Anger bubbles up inside me. Fucking humans, fucking society, fucking teratophobias. I am sick and tired of them. I knew they were selfish; greedy little shits that didn’t like to be anything less than the dominating lifeform, top of the food chain. But you never realise their hate until _you_ were the eye of the storm. Waiting for the wind to whip you, rain to lash you and yet when it does hit, it is nothing like you’ve ever braced for.

Lucy is scared. Of her brother, of her parents of those who have discovered her X-gene and shamed her. Gerrant would probably live forever if he can live on without his body, no matter what state. Z could never show how wonderful his powers were and David would constantly be looked down upon when he can see anything that has happened.

Victor places a hand on my shoulder and I take a deep breath. I unclench my hands and welcome the feeling of my claws sliding back in.

The four stare at me, and I can sense that they’re all wondering what the big blow out was. Lucy stares at me, almost challenging, as if to say “ _if you can’t argue your way into recruiting me, then how do you expect to run a world-wide organization and keep it a secret?”_

“I want this so very badly Lucy. Victor and I ran away from home after killing both of my fathers, biological and adopted, when my mother kicked us out for being freaks. And I was the only one with my mutant abilities activated. I am _so, so, so_ lucky I had Victor with me. This may not be the case with everybody else in the world. Be aware that we’re approaching war again; money is worth less and less. Families can only afford _one_ child. That is also what the Legion is. A place where other mutants can find family, use their powers responsibly without the scare of other humans.

“I want to gather fellow mutant-kind scattered across the world and tell them ‘hey you can do that’ and _not_ get into a ridiculous argument about how stupid that idea is. I don’t care if this would create chaos in the future, I just want a home where we can do whatever we want whenever we want. Is that too much to ask? Fine, I’m not the perfect leader; or follower; I’m not the one to defend my honor or others. I’m hard boiled, nearing 50 already, and may nearly not have done this in the first place. But I want to change the world. I want to be that change. And for all that I wish for this to work in a snap of my fingers, I need help, desperately.”

“It’s okay,” Lucifer smiles warmly, as if chuckling at a joke. “We’ll join.”

Gerrant didn’t move, but there was some kind of acceptance radiating.

I groan. They totally pulled the rug from under me.

[x]

“I think we should call the WMPL something else.”

I hum. The book’s pages seemed to turn by themselves. By god, I miss reading. But this wasn’t _any_ kind of reading; it was one of the first copies of _A Study In Scarlet_.

“How about the Limitless Yielding Aarde Lusus-naturae Legion?”

“Lyall?” Victor nudges me, and I look up to his suspicious smirk that never fails to scare the hebijeebiess out of me.

“Yesssss?” I drew the word out, questioning. “What do you want?”

“Never mind, you answered the question.” He sits back with a satisfying smirk directed to Jimmy, one of the first recruits since the starting of WMPL. “Go on, everyone thinks so.”

“Great! I’ll be leaving now, tally ho chaps.” I smile dimly at his British accent. It was very much like a medical accent, since, you know, he can throw his mind back at least a 100 years (but sadly he can’t affect it).

“Wait, what was the question?” I turn to Victor but his hat just so slipped down over his eyes so it looks like he’s asleep. It doesn’t _feel_ like it. His breathing hasn’t slowed down enough yet, but he does look very sleep-like to the average eye. I give him a stink eye he can’t see and eagerly return to my book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teratophobia is “fear of bearing a deformed child or dear of monsters or deformed people.” That would cover most mutants as their powers are mostly found by their family and only their family.


	8. 八

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is wrong with Lyall. She hopes that Victor doesn't find out, and that when they get to Australia it will fade. Somethings just never go her way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. I've become one of those idiot people who lost their usb sticks without backing up any files and the two unpublished chapters on it got lost. Yay for me. Lucky for you lot I've finished school and is already bored to snorts despite it only being the second day. Wow, now I understand why stories are always updated on holidays.
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading.

# Chapter Eight

Australia. We were finally going. Amy's motherland was so close yet so far. Victor and I would be boarding the first ship to Australia in a few weeks' time, and I could feel Amy vibrating from happiness. Victor had more than once commented on my chirpy mood ever since we had agreed to go to Australia.

Today we started the trek to the nearest port and had to stay at a dingy hotel overnight as the ship would leave tomorrow. The reason why I bring this up is... many.

To save money, because god was the shipping fee to Australia expensive, we had rented a one-bed room and Victor promptly went off to get some beers (which were actually pretty good) and I stared at myself in the mirror.

This might come to a shock to those who knew me in the army, but I was wearing a dress, and an ankle length dress even. It didn't have the bustle or the loops spreading out, just a simple corset, some fabric as the skirt and a little shawl to cover my shoulders. The whole thing was black and silver, as the gloomy feel all of Victorian London held seemed to make everyone grumpy, even me, and to blend in as that was the fashion (for several _years._ Does Queen Victoria really love her husband to morn over decades?).

I try to imagine Amy standing there in her awkward clothes and pants, more often only her underwear and bra, and gently push her presence to the 'front' of my mind. Slowly the slumbering soul of who I once was stretches and blinks my eyes.

Amy looks around and spots the double bed in the corner. She stumbles over and collapses, still in view of the mirror. Her face is slack, like she's stoned, eyes addled and movement is dulled like she's walking through water. Closing her eyes she

and like a rubber band, I'm snapped back into control. Amy slinks back into the back of my mind, far too exhausted to express anything. That wasn't the first time I've tried to do it, but this was the first time it worked.

Victor walks in with five mugs of beer in each hand. I'm so excited by my achievement I nearly tell him. I bounce over and remember just as I'm about to open my mouth. Victor holds out his left hand and I take the five mugs and set them on the table in the middle of our room, throwing back one immediately.

"What's got you so worked up?" he asks and I refuse to reply. Victor gives me a glance but sips at his beer too.

Later we're lying on the bed. This is were it gets weird; for the first second I'm functioning fine. Next - I'm out like a light. When I wake up, I freak out when I go over the night. Normally I hate sleeping because I am aware that I am asleep and yet my brain is still active. I am forced to lie there with the look of sleeping yet I'm still thinking about the day or the night or the most recent fight (and kill).

The night passed in the blink of an eye. I know when to freak out for the bad things, and this was a good time to go nuts over the fact my healing factor was not working.

It continued until around 12:30pm, my feet getting sore from walking for so long, my back aching from the heavy clothes and the bag I had to carry. The cold was seeping into my bones and I was about to shiver from the cold (it was almost bad as Canada) until suddenly everything was fine and I was ready and raring to go.

Whatever had stopped my healing factor was destroyed and it was all fine again. Thank fucking god.

The morning scare threw me back to the end of the Civil War. The third party arrows and the wound not healing until abruptly seconds later. Was this linked? It most certainly had to be. Whatever it was I hoped I could hunt it down and kill it. Without Victor's knowledge, I refuse to get him into this.

However, it was time to start getting to Australia. Hopefully there this enemy cannot reach me and poison me.

[x]

" _They say the trip out on the sea brings strange things aboard._ " Rainard, the ship's first mate, whispers mysteriously in German as the rope in his hands does strange things and did something to the sails. Obviously I'm not exactly a ship person. " _Fire appearing in rainstorms. Water rising out of the glass in water flat as a phonograph disc."_

"Mutant?" I lean into Victor as Rainard continues his tales. I feel Victor nod through his shoulder I'm leaning on. I don't think that is standard Victorian etiquette, judging by the looks. " _Rainard, I don't believe you. But I am interested. Do you know anyone that can give me proof?"_ The first mate beamed and a barrel of German came spewing out of his mouth. It was too fast for me to understand but a few words.

" _Marc is the one... always blabbering about it... captain of_ Lilly Marian _... taking off to Australia... better hurry..."_ he goes on and on, finally stopping to stare at me expectantly.

"Yay?"I cough when he still stares. " _I mean, I hope that what he speaks of is true as the the sun rising."_ I'm sure that's how they talk. _Right?_ Rainard dips his head in goodbye and returns to the ropes hanging down from the sails.

"Weird man," Victor grumbles in my ear. "He's lying, I'm sure of it. Not in the way you'd expect - like he's not telling everything and lying about all the stuff we don't care about. I'm not sure how to express it."

"Damn, should've known he wasn't 'true as the rising sun.'" I give a little laugh at my expression. Victor grins and I can see some other passengers nearly pee their pants at the sight. "I thought it was good, thank you very much! Was it pommy enough for these lot?"

"I thought it was good enough." Victor replies, accepting my hug when I hold out my arms to him. "What do you think of this Marc guy?"

"We shall find out when the sun rises." I say in a mystical voice, light and airy. My brother and I promptly burst into grins. This was never gonna be forgotten.

[x]

The _Lilly Marian_ sat in the dark, white sails tied up and captain's cabin's lights out. It was a stark difference to the boats and ships all around her, each glowing with lights and full of boisterous laughter. A lone homeless boy sat in front of the ship, staring up at the stars behind it.

"Excuse me," I say, snuggling down beside him. "Do you know where the captain of this ship is?"

" **I don't understand you**." he mutters, not bothering to turn to me. It's Greek, a language I enjoyed learning because I could understand my own language better. I let us sit for a while before I repeat the question in Greek.

Now he turned to me surprised. He looked at me suspiciously, picking out that I am still not used to these clothes even though I have been wearing them for years now.

" **You are not English or American. What are you? What is that accent?** " he fires his questions, one after the other. It takes sometime before I decide on an answer.

" **It is Australian, Japanese, Canadian and American all at once. What you're hearing the most is the Australian slang**."

" **That is one strange accent.** "

" **You speak weird for a supposed homeless boy**." All he does is turn back to the ship. " **But you don't have to tell me anything. We've all got our sob stories. I suggest selling the jewelry and expensive soap; that's how you tell the difference between the poor and rich**."

" **Marc disappeared yesterday. He hasn't been seen since a night in the pub**."

 _Lilly Marian_ creaks sadly at the news, like she could hear it. Now the absence of life make sense.

" **What do you think of it?** " I say, picking up a rock and bouncing it between my palms.

" **He's done it before. Disappears for a few days before launching of a new trip and appears seconds before hand, ready to go. You learn a few things living here with the homeless. I would say go talk with them, but I think what I've given you is all we have. People shut up around dirty children and refuse to say anything around you when you're posh, like you're too fragile to handle it**."

" **I hate that too. People think that as a woman I can't go around and kick people's butt, let alone kill multiple men and compete in a war**." The boy turns back to me in shock at my words.

" **You were in a war? That's so cool! How did you get in?** " I tilt my head towards him teasingly and hold my fist out. Slowly my claws emerge and the white of the bone stands out in the weak light behind us. His silence is all I need. Standing up, I flick him a pound and walk away.

I always like having an epic exit.

[x]

"Found anything?" I direct to Victor when he enters the hotel, door closing lightly behind him. Eyeing the mirror, I tug Amy to the front. Once again, it didn't work. Maybe the one time only worked because of the strange halt on my healing factor.

"Yeah." Victor strides into the only room beside the bathroom and literally rips his overcoat off himself and gives the tattered remains an unimpressed look. He chucks the fifth coat he has had this week into the trash and joins me on the bed. "Marc leaves a few days before an upcoming trip and returns minutes before, ready to leave."

"Not much else." I finish, recognising by the way he opens his mouth of what he was gonna say. "Nobody really knows for sure where he goes, but a few suspect smuggling." Victor gives me a wave of his hand, a 'what you said' motion.

"Had a lovely chat with a few homeless boys," he starts and I know where this is going "turns out that a clawed lady asked the same thing to a Greek friend of theirs. Didn't want you showing off on your own so I showed them my nails. They were impressed."

"Yeah, but mine's more awesome. Bone claws from the back of my hand? That's way more epic than lady nails." I tease and grin to show I'm joking. "Nah, you have it better in fighting style and can hide them better." Victor grins, in his usual sickening smirk, and leans back slowly to wrestle off his boots.

"Fuckin hate these clothes. Hate how we have to wear them to go anywhere." Victor remarks and I shoot him a glare. He doesn't know the pain of wearing a Victorian dress. Half feels like I'm in a steam punk world about to receive news of a cylinder crashing into the Earth any second now. And I don't even have the proper clothes on!

"When's the ship about to launch?" Victor asks when we're cuddled up against each other in bed. I'm always the one to seek heat in the night so it's pointless not to do this.

"In two days time." I recite. "Supposedly 12 pm on the dot."

[x]

"It seems to be as true as the sun rising." I remark and Victor rolls his eyes as I say it again. I don't think I'll ever get over the way these pommies talk. Sure enough, at 11:50 am a calm man strolls into the port yard and the crew moving around the _Lilly Marian_ cheer and roll their eyes.

"'Ey Marc," one man waves and he freezes unexpectedly and coughs uncomfortably.

"Good day," he snaps, French accent lining his words, and stalks aboard. "The passengers may board now."

"Excuse me Marc," I call once I'm done dumping my bag into our designated bed, seeing the extremely short man stiffly stand at the wheel. "Can I ask you a few things? Rainard pointed me towards you." Marc turns and the first thing that I see is a huge scar running from under his jaw and disappear under his stiff collar. It was red, puffy from freshness and slightly ugly from infection. His features, once you get an eye full of his scar, seem dull and unforgettable.

"Never heard of him. What do you want?" he snaps, twisting his head back to the prow of the ship, hands tightening on the wood.

"Rainard says you've been seeing... unnatural things. Such as fire during a rainstorm...?" I trail off, hoping Marc would pick up after me. Instead his scar seem to glow in anger.

"Preposterous!" he snarls, and I see Victor's nails length a few metres away from where he was watching. "What nonsense! I don't want to see you or your brother ever again on my ship when you get off!"

Walking away, I shake my head to Victor, who probably heard the whole conversation anyway.

"Dead end again." Victor murmurs as I'm leaning against the prow, the figurehead of a mermaid under me. "He wasn't lying a single bit. Every word was true... as the rising sun." he adds on the last four words with a mischievous grin. I laugh, glad that he's caught on.

The ride would last months, a few stops across Europe, around Africa, then we'll crawl past India, weave between Malaysia and Indonesia, finally coming to Australia. I can remember the flight Amy took from Australia to London - in a few hours. I never realised how fast planes can be.

But with every passing day, my nerves seem to tighten, my paranoia acting up weird. Something was wrong, and it was wiring me up. I could see Victor effected by it too. What was going on?

It wasn't until Victor whispered into my ear two months into the trip - " _Marc hasn't given a order since we've boarded. It's almost like he's scared of his crew."_

Something hits the back of my back and as I slip out, I feel myself falling over the rail and I hear Victor roaring with anger.

Amy pushed towards the front, taking up the controls as I dropped to the back of her head, slipping off into nothing.

[x]

_Ughhh_

_What_

_Victorrrrr_

_Whats happening_

_What did Marc do_

_Help_

_Amy what_

_VICTOR_

_Mary?_

_Mary what are you_

_Doing?_

_Leave Amy out of this_

_She doesn't_

_Have anything_

_To do with Kyren._

_LEAVE AMY_

_alone_

_VICTOR_

"Hello, I'm Amy."

_Don't tell Victor_

_I don't want to tell him._

_Amy do you hear me?_

"I am not Lyall."

_Don't mention Kyren._

_DON'T FUCKING TOUCH VICTOR YOU BITCH_

_NO, THIS ISN'T ABOUT KYREN ANYMORE_

_Leave Amy out of this_

_STOP IT_

_STOP ittttttttt_

_Amy can't hold it_

_LEAVE VICTOR OUT OF THIS_

"You hold nothing on me, Mary! Fuck you and your bitches too!"

_That will do nothing but anger her_

_It's useless Amy_

_Tell Victor I love him_

_Couldn't live without him._

_Guess he's my Emma. Remember when she died?_

**Yeah I do. I understand Lyall. I'll tell him.**

_Victor don't leave me_

_Amy just leave Mary alone._

_Fighting will do nothing._

**Where's the kick arse I know?**

_Dead. I don't care._

_Is Victor okay?_

**Yes.**

_Good._

_Sorry to drag you into this._

**It's fin –**

**ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH**

_AMY holy shit are you okay?_

_Amy Amy Amy_

_AMY_

_Please respond_

_Just ignore the pain._

_Think of something else._

_You're not here, okay?_

_Think of when you were a teenager._

_Nobody could believe how ignorant of pop culture you were._

**That was fun.**

_No pain. You were worried about nothing. No pain._

**No pain.**

**LYALL I'm going back to when I was a teenager.**

_IT'S FINE just ignore the pain._

**No pain. Right.**

**Hahaha, just pulled a dick joke on your brother.**

_His face was so funny right?_

_Just focus on high school and how safe it was. No pain._

**None at all.**

_We can do this. Pull through._

**All for Victor**

_All for Victor._

_All for_

**All for**

**_Him..._ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I'm surprised how fast I rewrote this chapter. Maybe I can do it without my USB stick. Thank you for sticking through all the shitty writing!
> 
> I've been notified that the last part is a little confusing. I've tried to clear it up a bit, but wait until next chapter for it to be explained.


	9. 九

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's time for Mary to finish Lyall once and for all. Yvo doesn't like that idea._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'LL BE EXPLAINING THE LAST PART OF CHAPTER 8 IN THIS CHAPTER. I know that it might've confused several people (as I already received a comment about it mere minutes after posting it), and I've taken note of it.  
> It'll be explained!  
> On the other hand, I'm trying to make myself get used to deadlines and have made the first of every month this story's update day. I might fail this miserably, but please excuse it. If I've haven't updated, give me a kick please.

# Chapter Nine

The first thing that registers in my brain is the sharp smell of dirt and unwashed human bodies. Slowly the feeling of gravel and small sharp items digging into my skin begin to seep into my awareness, and it wasn't long before I could move. My eyelids flutter as I quickly scope out the surroundings; bars so closely together I could barely fit my hand through connected the concrete ceiling and floor together. The floor was littered with scraps of dead skin and coated with brown blood and dirt.

By smell, it was only Victor and I. We both smelt terrible, and even in the poor light I could tell the lump in the cell across from me was my brother. We were both wearing mere rags of our clothes we wore on the ship.

"Amy?" Victor's tired voice whispers, voice so soft yet so loud in the darkness. "Are you okay?"

"Not-" I take in a deep breath and force whatever that had been shoved up the back of my throat out by coughing heavily. "I'm not Amy. I'm Lyall." My palms plant themselves in the rough concrete and slowly I rise. My hair falls around my face as I struggle to get up.

"Lyall?" Victor's voice is full of hope and relief. "Are you really Lyall? What happened? Who is Amy?" My body shudders as the healing factor kicks in and everything is back to normal within seconds, bones unbroken, muscles rebuilt, spirit mended.

"As true as the rising sun," I bite out, half laughing.

"Oh thank god. I couldn't work out a way to get us both out of here without your claws and healing factor." Victor's face is suddenly in view, my eyes automatically adjusting to the light. I grip the iron bars and wrench them out of their sockets, a move Amy couldn't dream of doing. With two more gone, there was enough space to squeeze out of.

I wait for the pattering of feet, the cry of an alarm, signs of other life, but none come. I realise, feeling a bit foolish afterwards, that this was 1880s (or at least the 80s). There was no such thing as a security alarm or cameras. Victor appears next to me, iron bars palmed, and envelops me in a deep hug despite our state.

" _Missed you._ " he quietly murmurs in my ear. The hug lasts well over 10 seconds, before we let go of each other. "We ready to go?" Victor grins, not holding back the bloodthirst, and in sync we throw ourselves at the wooden door with all our weight. It is no surprise that the doors smash, thousands of splinters going in every direction. We stumble over each other in an effort to get up, picking our way around the wood pieces and left of our prison, towards the smell of fresh air.

"Why aren't there any guards?" I swivel my body around to guard Victor's back. "They should be everywhere."

"The only guards were Mary's son and grandsons," Victor answers, slowing down so our backs press together. "Can… can you tell me who is Amy?" I bite my lip and tighten my grip on our weapons.

Quietly I spill a small biography of Amy's background. I admit that at first I thought I _was_ Amy, until I knew that she wouldn't do the stuff I would. Amy wouldn't kill. I did nearly every day.

"She was born over 100 years in the future?" Victor takes in a 'whoa' breath, letting it out with a sigh. "That must be why she speaks weird."

"And why I dress with minimum clothes, act and speak like an Australian and know Japanese off by heart." I list off, sniffing when a wave of fresh air rolls over us. Not to mention, the wooden hallway was lit better. "We're getting close to the exit."

The exit is a single door, this time cold to touch as it was metal. However the walls surrounding it was wooden, so all we needed to do was smash the walls around the lock and let it swing open.

"Ever since I realised who I was, Amy eventually became a separate person, hiding in the back of my mind. Whatever Mary did, she made us swap our places. After I got used to it, I started talking with Amy. I heard, and saw some stuff that happened, but I couldn't control my body." I break off to survey our surroundings.

The first 50 metres is blank snow, without a bump or a dip. The sweet smell of the sea washes over us and I take in the forest clustered around the building. The branches are so clustered that it's impossible to tell where one tree ends and another starts. It would look like one gigantic tree if it wasn't for the trunks connecting the floating branches to the ground.

Our foot prints, as none of us had shoes, stand out on the perfectly smooth snow, a clear pattern from the iron door to our trek away. Victor's foot print was far larger than mine, but if you compared a man from today with mine, you'd think I was a man. I was taller than every man I met, except Victor, because my healing factor just kept on pushing, and humanity isn't as tall as I'm used to.

"Marc, the captain, was captured by Mary and tortured into letting her minions onto the ship to capture us, or mainly you." Victor's gruff voice seems dampened against the whiteness around us as we travelled away from the building that held us for a good year. "Her son and grandchildren acting like Mary was the devil and basically refused to touch her and vanished from her presence as soon as possible."

"What?" I sharply turn my head towards my brother. "They _hate_ her?"

"And they seem to love us." Victor quirks his eye brow at me, like he's expecting an answer. Like the fuck I would know.

A smudge of smoke cut through the branches of the trees, dirtying the fluffy white clouds and blue sky. Not long into our trip the smoke of burning tar rolls across the field, obscuring our vision, turning everything into a dark silhouette. My nose twitches as the smell of multiple objects fuelling the fire begins to break through the heavy fog.

It's clear that Mary – or at least someone – is trying to get our attention. The first explosion is almost expected, as is the second and the third. After that it stops, so Victor and I have to rely on the thickening smoke and the reek of fire to guide us to the epicentre.

The first sign of a town is the trees ending. 100 metres from the tree line something rolls along the ground, a carved strip of soot lined cloth. Ignoring the overpowering smoke, I can safely say that there had been no human bodies in the fire, and the houses had been mostly left alone. It only seemed so bad because of the heavy tar smoke was settling down everywhere. A bonfire maybe?

A tug, a sharp gesture up, and soon Victor and I were hopping from one roof to another. Up here, the smoke wasn't so thick, but some of it rolled in the air like water, just starting to settle down to ash on the wooden roofs.

Glowing amber littered the streets, the crackle of wood sounding from all around us. The only place that seemed void of any fire was the centre of the village, a cobblestone hexagon with deep pockets touching all the lining houses.

The point where we arrive at is behind a shabby podium, a line of people down the centre, facing away from us. One is in a wheelchair. They're all facing a ring of people, people with guns pointing to a huddle. Victor is already moving, crawling over more roofs with absolutely no sound, stopping over the two guards stationed at every exit.

"Mary!" I shout, standing up to my full height. "I'm here."

The gaggle of villagers quieten, turning towards the podium. The closest person to Mary turns her wheelchair around to me. She was fragile, that I could remember from Amy's eyes, veins showing in the few places her skin showed. Mary's face was tight from age despite the winkles, and she was beyond that time of transition between baggy-skin middle aged lady to an old woman with wisdom etched into every winkle.

Her voice was too soft to hear, even for my animalistic hearing. With a sigh I step off the roof and land with a roll. It was important to direct everyone's attention to behind the podium so Victor could take out the guards covering the streets in and out of the centre of town.

" _So you've finally come._ " Mary repeats, breaking off into a cough. What she says next is softer, so I have to lean in to hear properly without major guessing the German words. " _Where is the mutt of a brother? Why you keep that beast I will never know._ Lyall _, meet my son, Yvo. I only have him because you killed his father."_ She raises her gloved hand to wave it at the man who turned her wheelchair before. Yvo opens his mouth to say something, most likely to translate, but I interrupt him before a single syllable exits.

"Oh for fuck's sake Mary, _Kyren died at least two decades ago. It's long past the point we should've put this behind us and let his soul rest._ " I argue, loud and clear in German. Mary purses her lips at the sound of it. Back in the Civil War, Kyren and Mary would often chat in Mary's mother-language, and I would stand by awkwardly as I didn't know what they were saying.

" _You killed Kyren. My son and grandchildren don't even remember his name, thanks to you!"_ So she's bringing this back to family. How many mutant haters have I met with this exact problem? Unlike other humans, I can't just go into a typical argument style, because for the first time _I'm_ the killer. " _Yvo, we don't need the villagers anymore. Kill them all."_

"No!" I scream, flicking out my claws in preparation to attack them all. The son smiles calmly, and leans back like he's satisfied.

"Actually," he dryly drawls in perfect English, German accent gone except for when you were looking for it. "I have a different idea. How about we kill… _you_ Mary, for trying to kill a perfect specimens ready to be examined."

Mary doesn't react.

" _Yvo? Tell them to kill the villagers. You know that they can't hear me because my voice is too soft."_ It hits me, a surprise so hard I momentarily take a step back and let the claws slide back in. Mary's forgotten how to speak English. I know that German was her mother language, but how can you forget a whole language you spoke for over five years _and_ lived in an English-speaking country? I know that children can forget their mother language with time if they move away before the age of 10, but this is different…

Quietly I repeat what Yvo said in German. Mary purses her lips and her hands half-clenches the arm rests they're on.

" _Is this true Yvo?"_ Mary asks, and seems to slump in her seat. A small spark of defeat lit in her eyes. " _You do not love your father?"_

"Why should I love a father I've never met?" Yvo laughs out loud at his words. So does his grandchildren, like they're all trying to get his approval. Yvo goes on, and I mindlessly translate as I sniff the air unconsciously. Two mutant smells break through the heavy smell of fire. One… was from the villagers. The other… was a small boy right up the back of the podium, only about 12 and looked scared for his life.

" _Fine then, kill me. I don't care what you do after I'm dead._ " Mary sighs and I have to look down when Yvo plucks a gun from a guard nearby and simply shoots his mother without hesitation. Nobody moves from the blood splattering on the podium.

"From now on, HYDRA exists to evolve humanity. We will hunt mutants like you down and to study the extraordinary, we'll be the ones standing on the top of the world, and the ones to be gods." Yvo holds the gun the sky and his children cheer loudly.

My world screeches to a halt. I replay the words Yvo spoke over and over in my head, panic descending as I come to terms.

What the FUCK did Yvo say?

HY-

_HYDRA?_

I'm cut out from my break down when Yvo turns away from me, tucks his arm behind his back and points the gun at the villagers. They try to back away, frightened, but the guards lift their guns and point them threateningly to them all. They freeze.

"Unfortunately, Mary was correct. You are need no longer." Yvo cocks the handgun back and lines it up. With a roar I take a running jump at the podium and uses their momentarily shock to shove Yvo out of the way as I launch off the wooden stand to land between Yvo and the villagers.

The guard on my right crumples as the hair trigger goes off. Yvo shrugs and steadies his hand. "Guards… fire." He snaps and flicks his gun to the guard nearest to him. I only had two seconds to locate the mutant and protect it. Unluckily for the humans, I value mutants over humans. The mutant was a black baby held by a white lad in overalls. I slam into him, ignoring the cries of the baby, and cover it with my whole body.

It was over in seconds. Bullets bit into my body and settled there, and all around me I could see people dropping like flies. The baby between me and the younger boy screamed his lungs out, and the lad looks me and the eye and I can see him accepting his death.

"Nick Fury," he whispers, and his head explodes. I don't know if that was his name, or the baby's name, but Jesus fuck more and more people are holding familiar names than I'm comfortable with.

The baby – Nick Fury – is still screaming when I gently settle his body on the pile of bodies fallen all around me. Blood, grey matter and all sorts of odd body fluids coat the bodies around us, a pre-frontal cortex sliding out of the lad's head. I hope the baby won't remember this, because I sure will. Bullets clink as they are forced out of my body and hit the cobblestone.

Victor's snarls reach my ears and I turn to see him holding the other mutant, the 12 year old one, away from the reaching hands of Yvo.

" _Oh Nickolaus,"_ he now croons in German, " _Why didn't you tell me you were a mutant? You could've been my favourite…"_ the other Nick (now deemed Nicky boy in my head) twists so Victor was more of a shield than a defence line. He says nothing, but tries to hide his slowly healing leg from view. It doesn't work.

"VICTOR! Up and out!" I call as I kill all the guards that come near me. "Let's leave, take him with us. I'm not leaving him with HYDRA."

A small choke escapes Nicky boy as Victor easily lifts him off his feet and throws him over his shoulder. I pick up Nick, the baby, carefully cupping him with both arms like a football and bolt out of the centre.

A cry of outrage follows us as we exit the town centre, the dead guards not rising like they would've to stop us. I throw a 'good job' to Victor and pick up my pace.

The streets are more of a maze than an alleyway. Debris litters the street, black from burning or still aglow from the heated coats. I ignore the pain that shoots up my leg whenever I step on something still hot and it's not long before Victor and I stumble out onto snow.

"To the trees," I say, and wait for Victor to hoist himself and Nicky boy up in the thick branches, before handing him Nick. "I need your clothes. Nick, the baby, won't last long without protection from the cold."

We both strip, the tiny shreds of what we had been wearing barely covering the baby. I wrap the lengths of cloth around the baby clumsily and wipe off the blood with little success.

"We have to leave. Now." Victor throws Nicky boy over his shoulder and hops from branch to branch. Our nearly white skin, void of any tan, almost blends into the snow, except our hair colouring in my head and Victor's chest and legs.

As we leave, more explosions sound behind us, shifting the branches under us. If it wasn't for my near perfect balance, I think Nick would've been dropped ages ago, along with my footing.

It started snowing again, sharp cold pricks on our skin. With the frozen rainfall, the usual breaths between the four of us and the swish as branches sway in the breeze dampen as the snow takes up more space.

It doesn't take Nick Fury, who _very_ much looks like a younger version of the Marvel character (sans eyepatch), to fall asleep, despite the blood and bits of brain drying on his skin.

[x]

Our fifth stop, a yard coloured brown by dead grass with a house squatting in the middle, Nicky boy finally speaks.

The house is empty. The owners were hanging from the shed nearby, the murder lying next to their bodies. We had stumbled across the girl just about to kill the old man and Victor immediately knocked her out, the rest of us quickly evacuating the warehouse.

Luckily enough the recently murdered family had a baby, age close enough to Nick that it wasn't a problem to cover him up appropriately (it was dress, funnily enough. What a great baby story). We all took a shower each, with me taking Nick in to wash the blood off him.

We took clothes out of the wardrobes, taking the simplest, cheapest clothes we could find and woolly and thick clothes to defend the younger two from the cold.

"The baby is a mutant, right?" Nicky boy quietly asks as I throw useless clothes over my shoulder.

"Yes," I hold up a dress, but threw it away once I realised it has triple layers. "His name is Nick Fury, apparently."

"I think his mutation is slow ageing. He's two years old, but we place him physically around four months. That's the only reason why You-Know-Who's followers kept him, because Yvo could've used it as leverage against you."

"Voldemort?" I ask confused.

"No," Nicky boy gives me a raised eyebrow. It's only now that I identify the German accent hanging from a few words. "Mary. Yvo made it clear that _she_ was not above us, so my cousins came up with that name. I think they got it from you."

"They musta." I mumble and pick up a simple red dress without much holding it down or hanging off it. It would have to do. "So," I start but pause to reef the dress up my legs and to wrap the corset around my body.

"My mutation awoke several months into your capture." Nicky boy quietly answers, expecting a completely different question. "I decided not to tell him because of the way he was talking about you and your brother."

"That wasn't the question I was looking for, but too late." I turn around, facing my back to Victor as he walks out of the shower. He sighs, but laces up the back of the corset and ties it relatively tight. "How long have we been there? What year is it? The Starks always have a X-mas get-together but they change cities with every year."

"It's1902. 1902, September."

Victor freezes in working the corset tighter. All I do is heave a big sigh and motion Victor to continue. Of course four years would've past in the building. Mary was just the one to continue bothering me even in her old age.

"Okay, well, I know it's in the capital city, on 25th of December." I rattle off, viewing the list of dates. They always pick Christmas, as with all the Starks acquiring jobs that demanded full attention, they decided to pick a day they're all guaranteed to be free. "Not quite sure where _exactly._ "

Nicky boy slumps, resting his eyes on Nick sleeping next to him on the bed and lazily rubs his index finger on his incredibly soft skin.

"What are we going to do with them?" Victor hisses quietly. "You know that a life like ours is _not_ suited for any child!" He grips my shoulders when I turn to face him. His nails bite into the fabric, slicing my skin open. I ignore the blood seeping down my back.

"I wasn't thinking," I sigh, dropping my gaze. "Mutant in danger – get it out. We could drop him off at the Starks or hand him over to the Legion, but…" Victor turns his head slightly, raising one eyebrow in question.

"But…" he fishes, waiting for me to finish my sentence.

"Okay, it's something to do with Amy. Nick Fury's name is very, very well known to her and uh, that's in the 21st century. I don't know if this is his grandparent or what."

"We still need to talk about Amy. Not in their presence, but when they're gone off on their own."

"That'll be in a long time, Victor. If I'm correct, Nick as a 1:5 ratio. When he's been living for 50 years, he'll be 10 years old. Victor – in 2012 he'll be 24 years old. I know we'll probably drop him before that, but society doesn't care about how long he's been living for. If he's not physically an adult, they'll treat him like a stupid child, only needing to be baby sat. You know how many times men have tried that on me. Imagine that on Nick."

Victor loosens his fingers and draws his hands away. He just nods and marches over to Nick, picking him up with care.

"We all ready to go?" he calmly remarks like we're going on a trip to the park. I turn and shrug on a thick over coat and smile at my brother.

"As true as the rising sun." I snark and waltz out the door, Nicky boy following meekly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, despite how awful it is!


	10. 十

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tunguska happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please allow the author skin changing thing. If it's already allowed, then you won't see the button.  
>  **SO SORRY FOR LATE POSTING. I FORGOT TO UPLOAD THIS CHAPTER SO YOU'LL BE GETTING TWO IN A SHORT PERIOD OF TIME.**

# Chapter Ten

The house squatted on the rise of a mountain, double story and a light green touch to the surroundings. A large veranda sat above the entrance door and 'round the back was a wonderful garden bursting to the brim with glowing green trees and rich grass, a crystal clear creek snaking through the front yard, completing the fairy-tail look.

This was the house Gerrant lived in, sitting snugly on the side of one of France's many mountains. Over the years, many mutants with the ability to not die, weather it was a healing factor or delayed aging, and they had jokingly called it the Immorals, a play on word immortals and the fact most had a detached feeling to the world when everyone around them started to die.

It was time for Nick to enrol. I didn't know the exact requirements, but I knew Nick would be able to get in no problem. Jörg may or may not join, but that was all up to Gerrant.

Despite the house looked like it was two stories, the house descended down and down further into the ground, with so many layers and entrances and exits I don't know if everyone remembers them all.

With Z dead, Gerrant had to get used to the fact he was basically on permanent house lockdown and anyone who saw him knew he was just a skeleton. Thankfully, he wasn't the most gruesome sight there was in the House of Immorals, where one guy goes around with every injury he's had plus the wrinkly old look on everything he has.

A small boy with squinty eyes answers the door, takes one look at me and practically screams in delight.

"Oh my god it's Lyall Howlett!" and then I'm being dragged into the house, down a stairs and through a door that blended into the walls. Beyond the door was more stairs, this time wide and made of hard earth that slightly dipped in the middle from so many people walking down it.

It opens up to a huge hallway, circular wooden table and seats everywhere. There were well over 10 mutants in here, all Immorals.

"LOOK! It's Lyall HOWLETT!!" he screams into the relatively quiet hall. Everyone turns to squint at me in the dim light and watches Victor, Jörg and Nick follow down the steps. I look back to see a sly smirk on Victor's face. Was he up to something? "The oldest mutant and founder of LYALL!"

I double take. What was LYALL?

But those words seemed to excite everyone, people standing up to come up to me and shaking my hands. Victor got a few acknowledgements, but it all seemed to focus on me.

"What the fuck is going on Victor?" I hiss to him and his smirk gets more pronounced. "What is LYALL?"

"Come on, Lyall, don't you remember agreeing to rename WMPL to Limitless Yielding Aarde Lusus-naturae Legion? It’s only _chance_ it abbreviated to your name, after all." He replies and Nick giggles in my arms. He doesn't really speak, only making a few faces every now again, but he was curious as hell for a 17 year old.

"Who's that?" the boy from before peers up.

"Nick Fury, my adopted son. He was born in 1890." And, since it was 1907, he was physically 3 and a half years old. "This is Jörg, and he has a mild healing factor. We don't know if he can be an Immoral."

"Well Fury is most certainly allowed to be an Immoral, but we'll see in a few years if Jörg is one or not." A very old and familiar voice slides into the conversation and I turn around to greet Gerrant.

His grinning skull opened with soft creaks when he spoke, just as I remembered, and his empty eye sockets seemed to flicker in the low lighting. His bones were as just as dry the last time I touched him, the uncomfortable sensation of his breath crawling down the back of my spine almost welcoming.

"Mate," I sigh, "When was the last time I saw you?"

"When you told me Queen Victoria baby sat Jörg and Nick while you were at the Boer War." He replies, voice bone dry.

Hehehe. So many skull jokes around Gerrant.

"Five years is still long, mate," I counter, smirking inside at my pun. Gerrant doesn't move his head, but I get a very strong feeling he was raising his non-existent eyebrows. Time didn't exactly count around here. You did it whenever you wanted.

"So, I see this is the first time you've learnt about LYALL?" Gerrant continues, jaw clacking. I huff in annoyed anger.

"Yes. I don't know why you named it after. The least you could do was add in Z, David, Lucy, you and Victor." I argue as Nick slides his hands down the two bones of Gerrant's forearm, the radius and ulna, and a spectacular look grows on his face when his chubby fingers slide in between the bones. Carefully Gerrant dislodges Nick's curious fingers, but in payment Nick return to poking at the finger bones.

"Because you were the one behind the idea and convinced the rest of us to actually form LYALL in the first place." Gerrant calmly replies, giving Nick a giggling fit when he pokes him in the cheek.

"St-ahhhp." Nick hiccups.

"Ah," Gerrant turns his skull to Nick, taking full interest in him. "Delayed education?"

"Well, not really. The Queen certainly taught both Jörg and Nick a few things."

"Heyyy," the boy who welcomed us in tugs on my shorts. He couldn't have been more than 5, but something tells me he is as old as Gerrant. "Show me your claws! Are they bone like Gerrant is?"

"Uh-huh," I squat down to his height and set Nick on the floor, who slumps into a sitting position and reaches up to Gerrant with both hands, thinking he'll pick him up. When that fails, Nick turns to Victor, who grudgingly complies (I knew that Nick had Victor wrapped around his finger, but the only problem was which one).

"Tell me your name first," I turn back from smiling gently as Victor settles Nick on his hip.

"Gay Billowson," he shyly mutters and looks at me, expecting. With a smile I hold out my fist, and he waits for my claws to come out.

"You goin’ ta give me a fist bump?" I ask and when he knocks his fist against mine I let my claws slide out slowly, pushing his fist away. His face is spirit-lifting.

 

"Thank you Lyall," he whispers and tackles me in a hug. "I don't think I could've survived this long without other mutants and Immorals."

"Billowson hasn't aged the day his mutant ability awoke when he was 11, but he can die from anything else. I found him about to do dive off a building when I was enlisting for the newly made group of LYALL." Gerrant sits down with a rattle of bones and his jaw just simply opens and closes when he speaks. "This is why we renamed it to LYALL. Us founding five? We just did the grunt work."

"I disappeared on you several times, leaving the WM- uh, LYALL, all on you." I snap back and turn to glare at my old friend. "Don't you dare say you didn't do anything. Plus, this Immorals? That was all on you. Don't put yourself down Gerrant. It just isn't right."

Gerrant's skull just grins back, not a muscle moving.

Despite my previous smouldering anger, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. Hehehehe.

[x]

Despite the flashy new ‘automobiles’ that could go an astounding 80 km/h max, (meaning that everyone drove them at only 60 or 50 km/h) it took us well over a month to just get to the capital of Russia, Moscow.

I’m only going to Tunguska to find out why there was, well, will be a massive explosion. The area I’m aiming for is a very rural place, with tiny towns dotting the surrounding grounds. Victor already knows why we’re going to Tunguska; it only took him several hours before he finally asked.

He’s baffled why I would want to explore a measly detonation until I explain that no one was truly able to completely interpret the event, not even when I died.

“But, I, I don’t get it. Why wouldn’t it be explained? You, said that technology is far more advanced than todays, so -?” Victor mutters under his breath, careful not to draw the attention of the lady next to Victor. It was less expensive to go by train to the nearest major city near Tunguska than by car, and much swifter.

“Yes, but this is 1907. Today, pictures are still _black and white;_ telephones need someone _else_ to call up anyone and women are _still_ suppressed.” I sigh and lean my head on Victor’s shoulder. Despite the fact now that Queen Victoria was gone and everyone was less… inflexible, many were still supporting stiff upper lips and hated any signs of affection. The lady next to Victor mutters something and it doesn’t take long before she’s vacating the seat. “People don’t have rigid surveying techniques or the better understanding of science. It’s very easy to mistakenly record it wrong and that error is copied and pasted over and over.”

“But didn’t you say it happens in half a year? Why are we going so soon?” Victor grumps, folding his arms.

“Well, first we have to check out the place, and someone said there’s a group of mutants camped out nearby. _Plus…_ I sense a disturbance in the force.” I stifle a giggle. “Nah. I donno. By the time we’re there, it’ll be only a week before hand and ya know, there _are_ mutants in the immediate area.”

“…Was that a reference…?”

“Victor! Don’t tell me you haven’t watched _Star Wars!”_ It takes my brother a second before he realises I’m teasing him. 

“It’s from the future, isn’t it.” Victor grumps, and he scowls at the man across from him. Once the guy notices, it looks like he wet his pants. The man followed the lady pretty quickly.

“The force is strong in this one. Do you think we’ll clear out the train by the time we get to our stop?”

Victor sits in silence, and I laugh quietly.

[x]

With the native mutants found, enrolled and gone, it was time to really sniff out Tunguska. The problem with using Amy’s memories is that she doesn’t actually _know_ where _in_ Russia it is, let alone the general area. It had taken me nearly an hour to find a place called Tunguska and unfortunately it has _a lot_ of unexplored areas. The remaining 2 weeks up to the event will be spent on finding the most likely area it will occur. Until then, we were reduced to touring through the forests surrounding a place called ‘Старойу’ a name I had no idea how to translate.

It was up to the brim with mutants, with an astounding _6_ (a record) all of them without knowing about each other.  The ‘meet  & greet’ session was a time I would look back on and laugh.

It wasn’t until a travelling merchant passing through did we get any leads other than the haunted house, and the 6 mutants mucking around with their combined powers. He spoke of a house 10 km from the nearest crossroads, which in total was nearly 1,000 km, that when he camped there for the night things kept disappearing and reappearing. Sometimes it was in the exact spot, sometimes it was malformed and sometimes they reappeared right in front of his eyes. Judging by the scared-rat look on his face, it was very, very real.

We left the next day.

The so-called second haunted house was barely a shed. There was only one wall of wood on the outside and you could peak through the beams without a problem. The forest surrounding it swallowed it right up, trees extending their branches to form a dome around the shelter. Bushes, undergrowth, new and old leaves crawled up to the edge of the wooden barricade, possibly growing further. The wind sighs as trees wavered in the cold breeze, branches freely moving in the rare moment of no snow.

The door opens easily, hinges wailing deeply, and inside of the dwelling is nothing but a cement floor broken by little green sprouts desperately trying to grow.

“This it?” Victor grunts and lightly runs his thickened nails down the side of the wall. It splits around his fingers in greeting. “Seems… far too bare.”

I sneeze, once, twice, three times. Victor casts a worried glace over; I hadn’t sneezed since the day my mutant genes kicked my smelling sense into overdrive. I dismiss him with a wave of my hand and pull out a carved wooden swan to set in the middle of the floor.

“There; prime object to fling around.” I smile at Victor, hands on hips. Supposedly it looks more shark-like than friendly. I settle on the floor, staring intently at the swan and within a second the grain is carved into my head, every line, every crack, and every knob. Having perfect memory sometimes fucking sucks.

Victor settles on the floor, sighing and joins in the staring. It doesn’t take us long before the only noise is soft breathing and nature’s songs carrying on around us.

I don’t flinch when a sharp cold snowflake bites into my exposed arms, more sliding through the ligneous roof. Soon small petite birds find our radiating heat and snuggle into the lines of our clothes, fighting for a little piece of warmth. Victor’s denude legs are a prime spot for the birds, as is under my hair.

Darkness falls, possibly sooner thanks to the slow snow shrouding Tunguska and the heavy grey clouds blanketing the sky. It isn’t long before I give into the normal instinct of falling asleep when the owl next to my ear gives a startling hoot, the first sound in ages.

The birds scatter as I flinch away from the sudden sound piercing my ear, the massive gathering of birds screaming in fear as their perch began to move upwards. Victor sees why I’m still moving and stands up carefully to avoid squashing any birds.

The swan was gone. Completely, utterly _gone_. The dust around the swan hadn’t been disturbed, and the wood was too heavy for any bird to pick up.

“What…” I drag my fingers over the surface that had once been occupied. Victor crouches down beside me and I have to smother a laugh when I realise a very grumpy barn owl still squats on his shoulder. “Nice friend.”

“Oh shut up. Not like you don’t have one.” Said kingfisher finally got its feet and wings untangled from my hair and flies away in panic. I raise both of my eyebrows when the barn owl shuffles closer to Victor’s head, clearly not caught. “ _Anyway_ , I saw it disappear before my eyes.”

“Too busy falling asleep. Thanks Victor for being here.” Chirping, I nudge Victor’s side. The owl gives me a dirty glare, but flies off. Victor rolls his eyes in reply.

“But what took it?” I mutter, finally getting into the mood. “I-I don’t understand. It’s just a swan.”

“I -”

My gut clenched. Victor crumples next to me, no floor under his feet to stand up. I felt like I was flying, in the most unexpected, unpleasant and throwing-up style. Flying through space faster than I had ever imagined. The stars around us blurred as we were thrown out of where we were and to –

"…Thank you Lyall, Victor…”

-and bam, the feeling passes, the whisper gone. In its place was the easily identified wind howling past my ears as I fell arse over tits in mid-air. My mind swam as I tried to establish where the bloody hell I am. A sharp pain down my arms draws me to the fact Victor was next to me, looking as shocked as I am. His limbs flail as he tries to stand upright in the thin air. He tries to shout something, but the wind rips it away. I doubt he even heard what he said.

My eyes water, despite my healing abilities, as I flip upside down and the curve of the Earth slowly disappears as I fell. As we fell I could see the grey smudges of human settlement, wide blue oceans spreading across all around us and just the shocking slap of so much _green_. Falling at most 350 km/h from at least the top of the ionosphere would give anyone a shock, much less two people who haven’t even flown in a plane yet.

However high we were, our speed was punctured with frequent stops and starts as I tried to reach over to Victor to grasp his arm. With him changing his position, from above of me to below and then above again, it was increasingly hard to reach over to Victor. Several times he ‘floated’ away, and in those scary seconds I though he was going to land in China and I in Russia.

I shuddered as I try to forget the fact _we’ve got to land sometime_ and the tiny voice in the back of my head whispering “I’m not sure we’re gonna make it” and fight the force of the wind to reach my brother.

“Lyall-” he screams and 100 kilometres from the Earth’s surface we finally grasp hands. Something shivered in the air around us and a golden glow encases us, but the decent doesn’t stop. Victor wraps his arms around my body and I copy him, squeezing my eyes shut.

It takes a few heart-stopping moments but the air around us heats up and with an ear-drum shattering sound, every cubed millimetre in the yellow circle erupts. This time, unlike falling down, I’m flung sideways, and for a scattering flash I can see a streak of black flying away opposite from me.

I black out from pain.

[x]

“Lyall! LYALL! Oh for fuck’s sake, LYALL WHERE ARE YOU?”

The voice is muffled. I try to _move_ but the dirt layered above me compresses any movement. Pain sparks up, possibly the wounds can’t heal until I move my limbs into a preferred position. Ignoring the pain, I fight, twisting and shoving everything away from me and tries to dig towards the voice.

“Hey! HEY! I’m in HERE! HELP!” Someone nearly stumbles as they clamber over to where I was shouting, getting closer with every noise. Slowly, they started to dig, our fingers clashing when light stabs into my barely-healed eyes. Hands grip under my arm pits and I’m _dragged_ out of the grave. I cough, throwing up clumps of dirt, sticks, blood, and insides in multiple motions.

“I was lucky to just hit a fucking huge rock.” Says the voice and it takes me almost 5 seconds before I realise its Victor. His language – is strange. It’s _not_ English. It’s a completely different. “It’s not much of a rock now.”

“What the fuck are we speaking?” I gasp, kicking my legs so they could finally heal from being crushed to smithereens. I turn to grip the hand Victor laid on my shoulder and blink when my eyes snap into perfect focus. “Put a hold on that – what the hell are we **wearing**?”

In the, ah, _landing_ , our clothes should’ve been ripped, torn, burnt up, and in all honesty, utterly gone, but the clothes we were wearing were perfectly fine, and mine were even slowly fixing _themselves_ over the patches sticks and stones that used to be _sticking_ (hehehehehe) through my legs and stomach. My clothes seem to be a looser version of a cat suit, not quite second skin. The sleeves and chest area was the best bit; they had cracks all through them and _lava_ flowing freely, a brightly glowing red liquid defying all physics and gravity, not even burning through the fabric to scorch my skin. Victor dips his finger in the lava on my forearm and hisses, wrenching his hand away.

Victor is even freakier. He has long black trousers, a button up shirt barely seen under a trench coat that _feels_ like cotton, but I have the sense to second guess that observation. On the back is an embroidered logo, one that is possibly on my back too. It just a massive cluster of string and pieces of fabric, criss-crossing and dividing and doubling back; to the normal eye it looks like a sowing gone wrong, but I can make out the characters emblazoned.

“Majestor Victor Creed, Imperial Guard.” Victor’s eyes flicker back up to mine in undoubtedly pure shock.

“Quick, what does it say on the back of mine,” I turn to face my back to Victor, snapping my right arm out so it can set in the correct way. He brushes his hand over my back, a touch I can feel through the thick fabric.

“Majestrix Lyall Howlett, Imperial Guard.” Victor mutters lowly.

“What-?” Victor just heavies a huge sigh and turns me around to hug. I twist my head to lean against his shoulder and finally I see my landing stretch. My shocked silence is enough.

Behind us are a massive pile up of trees, dead animals, bush and a fuck-ton of dirt. Under our feet is freshly turned forest dirt, and my eyes go up and up and up from our feet and it just doesn’t stop. It looks like a dirt road coming to a dead spot at the deep hole I just climbed out of.

“Holy fuck,” I breathe, reaching down to grasp a handful of dirt from the ground. It’s far finer than normal forest dirt. I return to look at the hole I was buried in. Peering down, it’s easy to lose the bottom without good eyesight.

“I don’t know Lyall. I think we have to go back to civilisation. I couldn’t find you when I woke up. I went back; it’s been – 4 weeks. 4 weeks from the explosion and the day you said the explosion should happen.” Victor turns to give me a look. “Lyall, we **are** the Tunguska explosion. ”

I could care less about the explosion; yeah, so what, it was us. It was gonna happen anyway with or without us.

But it happened again – this time only a month, but I had lost a whole _month_ and I don’t know _why._

It’s just…

… _why._


	11. 十一

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "YOU DO KNOW THIS IS A TRAP?" Victor coughs up blood all over the dirty air force uniform as soon as the three things stuck in his skull were removed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you I would upload another chapter soon.  
> This chapter will need some background information about the ANZACs. Here are some links to pages about them.  
>  **The pommies are the British. It isn’t insulting. It’s like Aussies.**  
> [The Government webpage about Gallipoli](http://www.gallipoli.gov.au/)  
> [ANZAC story](http://www.anzacs.net/AnzacStory.htm)

# Chapter Eleven

I’d’ve to admit, having two people inside one body is very cool, and very popular; why do you think that Yu-Gi-Oh! is so famous? You have two sets of memories, personalities and (often) morals. Deciding that Amy was another person altogether split the line between us even deeper, and she was drawn to the back of my head, barely touched upon unless I wanted access her memories which was mostly through dreaming.

However, since Yvo and Mary had trapped me inside my head, several people have claimed that I’ve… loosened up. And had gotten severely more childish than anything else. Head specialists might say it was a coping technique. Well, with two _actual_ people inside one body – don’t you dare say I have multiple personality disorder, it’s more like schizophrenia but the voice inside is real – I think they could defiantly make an exception.

But yeah, it all boils down to Amy; how she slides into everyday conversations with references to TV – which wouldn’t be invented nor put into place until well after World War 1 – dirty jokes that fly straight over the prudish minds of the once-Victorians, and an absolute high-standard for technology that just frustrates the fuck out of the Stark family (who are _always_ trying to be the best in technology and hates it when it doesn’t impress _every_ one).

Not to mention the slang of being Australian and text talk. Sometimes Victor has to translate for me and the people around us, including when they try to talk to me.

There is _literally_ a handful of people alive today who know about Amy, and one of them is about to die from old age soon anyway, and they don’t actually know Amy; she’s just a bunch of memories in my head – she doesn’t have _personality_.

And, yeah, Amy does. Unlike me, Amy absolutely hates cashews and peanuts when for me the taste is okay. Amy winces whenever I take a drag of Victor’s cig, shuddering when I feel the thick smoke infect my lungs. Amy couldn’t _stand_ granadilla, while I had a _huge_ passion for it. Her voice whispers in the back of my head when I sleep, commenting on the day and large topics.

Yvo had created some kind of substance that shuffled us around from the steering wheel and the backseat and took advantage of a weaker, older person controlling the body and tortured Amy like she was me. Over the four years, I had gotten stronger, protecting Amy little by little until Yvo was basically torturing me and only me, and Amy was the one speaking and moving. With that protection and defence, she took the time to gather the broken pieces of herself and assemble them into something that vaguely looked like herself.

But it aftereffects of HYDRA didn’t stop there. For some reason unknown to me – remember, Amy could separate her train of thought from mine – she stopped oozing the all-round wisdom older people seemed to emit every waking moment, and her actions and thoughts were more based off her childhood. Was it shell shock? A coping technique? Only a head specialist would know, and I certainly wasn’t one.

There was an old saying that Amy keeps on thinking whenever I analyse my strange change in character; your personality is based off the five people you hang out with most. Sometimes I ignore it, hoping to avoid confessing to myself what’s going on.

One way to do that is to sit silently, still for a while, commonly when I’m supposed to be asleep, and just stroll through the chambers of Amy’s mind palace. I enquire about the future, analyse the technology of her time, and learn about so many life lessons and life hacks that probably won’t be used until decades come.

My favourite past-time is to view the history of the world. Sometimes I hang around the ancient history stored in Amy’s memories, sometimes the most recent events before Amy’s death intrigues me. However, the 20th century features heavily.

I know I shouldn’t. Changing the future is such a huge story plot device and anything dealing with time travel always _at least_ touches on it.

I guess that’s why it’s so _interesting_ in the end, to spot events in the newspaper and have spark of elation as you realise ‘I _knew_ that would happen.’ There is something addictive of that feel; something one could find something synonymic with getting high.

And you know what year it is? 1914. Yeah, you got it. World War One, the birth of the legendary ANZACS (Australian and New Zealand Army Corps), the formation of America’s high standing, the destruction of so many lives (and sometimes pause and think that there’s another one lined up not long after).

Of all the museums, school assignments, self-research time spent towards WW1, I could understand that it was worse than the American Civil War and the Boer War, with the tanks tearing up land and huge, bulky machine guns vomiting up deadly bullets ready to rip a man dead.

 They really, really tried to convey the horror, the bloodshed and the constant fear eroding away your courage.

But I’d say differently, standing in the soldier’s shoes, the constant tingle of healing wounds, and the ignored sharp pain of a bullet ripping through my body.

Yeah, I could imagine World War One was _terrifying_. And of course history softened up the story to make it likeable to the public. But holy Jesus fuck, I had _not_ thought of _this._

Egypt was fine. As a woman that had fought in the war before and had achieved a very high standing (General, once again, in the Boer War, but everyone was dying all the time so it wasn’t hard to gain high standing) the Australians and Kiwis listened to me, as I already had experience with winning over army men during the American Civil War and their respect developed far quicker because they had different views than the Victorian-Americans.

To no body’s shock but mine the ANZACs were actually pretty disrespectful to anyone and disobeyed instructions with increasingly frequency. The men were completely, and utterly, full of themselves and always looked for a way out, even though _they_ were the ones who signed up.

Like I had expected, several underage boys had signed up, thinking they’ll do their mummy proud, goin’ out and dying for their country. I – I – don’t want to see their mother’s face when the KIA note turns up on their veranda.

Training the ANZACs was _hard_. While I had their respect, it was only as big as any other superior above their command. It was shocking to feel the relief washing over me as a few men followed my command to the letter (I always gave them a little more privilege over the others).

Then the call came in – the ANZACs would be transported to Turk land immediately to fight the Ottoman Empire, hopefully delivering a harsh blow to the Germany’s allies. I, of course, knew different, but nothing I could do would accomplish anything but stirring up dirt.

The sail there, to ANZAC cove, was pitch black. I couldn’t tell Victor was standing next to me if I wasn’t holding his hand. It was suddenly understandable that nobody knew that the ship sailed a little too much, followed the river’s course a tad too long, the rough terrain before us a touch too steep.

From there – I don’t want to talk about it.

I can tell you about the blood, the deaths, the mateship, how courageous some of the ANZACs were, and I’ve lost count of how many Victorian Crosses I’ve been awarded (the wonderful perks of not caring what happens to you). There weren’t any mutants at the end but Victor and I. It was hard concealing your… extra parts… when everyone was shoulder to shoulder.

(I had discovered the journalist with the article that described the horror of Gallipoli and the fact we weren’t gaining any – if at all – ground. The soldiers expected me to rip it up like the good captain I’ve been patrolling as the past 14 months, but I let the journalist go with blank eyes. Victor nearly cracked up when he saw the soldier’s faces.)

Finally, the last order to evacuate ANZAC cove came in along with the genius idea of the automatic-gun.

Some ANZACs went home. Those who weren’t sick of war or sick in the mind or body continued on to the Western Front, which wasn’t much difference other than Australians spread across the individual countries stuffed in France. Because the pommies had a hard time understanding anyone who didn’t sound like them, they used the ANZACS to basically interpret between the vast accents.

The difference between the Western Front and ANZAC Cove was so minuscule beyond the enemies and the trenches I don’t bother analysing.

There wasn’t much for me to do for the whole four to three years during the War other than shoot the people on the other side of my scope and score so many honourable awards they cover the front of my shirt. Some of them I deserve. Others I don’t. There are countless of moments that weren’t even spoken of once.

I suppose you would think I would go on some long-winded spiel of how much I hate war. I do, I guess. Mostly I just don’t care. Being 85 years old and surrounded by boys under the voting age arguing over the smallest of things can really get on your nerves. So like most immortals, I slowly shut down my emotions, starting with my care factor.

But every so often, whenever I save a soldier’s life, I -

I don’t think I’m like other immortals (Victor kinda understands).

And yeah, there were nicknames. Lucky Lyall, Howler Duo, Vicious Victor, and even a cheesy name as Unkillable Lyall and Victor. But whaddya expect, it was war time, and people wanted something to distract them from the war just above their heads.

There were also other mutants with equally terrible names. Not a lot survived the war, but not a lot of humans survived the war too. Most powers weren’t any use on the battlefront, some were just a little more muscle power, or a tiny amount of control over a specific element, or an insignificant ability to walk on liquids.

Nobody but Victor and I had the same level of a healing factor. Even mine was just a little more powerful than Victor’s who, in turn, was just a little more animalistic ~~and bloodthirsty~~ than me.

There were mutants in every division, every nation, every _direction._ Several times I had to murder my own kind. Germany, Austria-Hungary, Ottoman Empire and Bulgaria had several powerful mutants that stayed alive along to achieve a name for themselves. Amy knew two that liked to reside in the sky and the ground: The Red Baron. Even Simpson and his Donkey were _both_ mutants.

Victor always likes challenging these folk and defeating them with little effort, like they’re little insects. He doesn’t care that they’re mutants too, but at the same time he doesn’t care if it’s war or not.

Speaking of Victor, he keeps on getting himself stuck inside POW camps, and it often takes us months to track him down far beyond the front lines and into Japanese territory. Sometimes he tracks us down after killing those who captured him and just randomly drops in.

Then, one time, he doesn’t come back 12 months.

1918 was just around the corner, although every other soldier thought the war would go on forever. USA hadn’t joined the war and a stalemate was just beginning to develop with everyday passing.

Victor should be back.

He never left more than 6 months.

But he wasn’t.

Exactly 12 months since the last day I saw Victor, I gave up waiting and abandoned my post – and like all clichés, every man I passed told me I would die and it would be useless. I just spat in their faces and heaved myself over the edge of the trenches, waving the few women goodbye and started walking over to the enemies. Bullets zipped through the air, biting through my skin, and unlike the past few years were I pretended to get hit, I continued walking and walking and walking towards the German side. The closer I got, the more concentrated the bullets were. By the time I had gotten to the enemy side, the sun was high in the air when it was just starting to leave the faraway mountains.

My body was so chock-full of lead bullets that it was getting harder and harder to move easy around the dead bodies and all the other shit that had gathered at the top of the trenches.

The German soldiers stared in shock as I dropped into their trenches without a weapon in sight. Some backed away, thinking that I would start ripping apart their throats.

“Hello,” I say, and is greeted in silence. “Have you seen my brother? About yay high, thick mangled blond hair and ridiculously sharp nails? Could’ve walked through bullets like I just did? No?” Nothing.

I repeat in German, then Ottoman Turkish and finally Bulgarian.

Zlich.

“Fine, I’ll ask someone else,” I sulk and shove past the stunned soldiers. I continued to stalk throughout the Central Powers side of the Western Front, finding myself in the oddest places and in the weirdest situations.

For example, I met a mutant who recognised me from a painting or photo – good ol’ Stark, probably – and fangirled over me constantly when I showed my claws.

Another sergeant followed me around and kept his gun trained on me the whole time, shooting me every _hour_ in varying limbs. Because his constant vigilance he refused to sleep and several people had to hit him on the head to knock him out.

It was a nice trip, but my true intention was not found; Victor was gone.

I did find one particular mutant who could help me – he could see a great distance, but not through most materials on earth. On one of his nightly searches through no-man’s land looking for mines, he stumbled across a bunch of people forcing long poles of some substance through one man’s arms and legs, and they’d finally captured him after 30 minutes of battle. The man who they were trying to capture reportedly had very long nails and could fight despite the things stuck in his limbs.

The mutant – who didn’t even bother introducing himself – followed the struggle across the land for several nights for a pure form of entertainment and the last time he saw them before they gradually escaped his vision was 6 months ago.

Victor was going to Germany, supposedly.

Which was where _I_ was going. But the long trek to the nation would take forever when it would be easier to call in Stark resources at the nearest town, no matter who ‘owned’ the land.

[x]

The planes of middle world war 1 were so different from the beginning of the decade it was _so_ easy to think they were from different eras, not just over 5 years apart.

Rather than the enclosed quarters of the 21st century, the plane was limited to two mere seats with barely any protection against anything. The pilot steered clear of any notifiable air conflict and switched the painting on the side every time the plane entered to territory. That was mostly my job.

Germany had spread nearly all across Europe, with only Switzerland and a few pockets of land free from any war, although how much was actually infiltrated wasn’t truly known. Which is why I met with the current head of the Stark family in the land of the neutral, barely three meters where the two-seater plane had landed on the tarmac.

“Hello Miss Howlett,” Walter Stark, now all grown up and stern. He used to stare at me in _such_ awe, back when his grandfather brought home two new people to play with and had strange abilities.

Now, he’s the new head after his father died of sickness, his wife is probably cheating on him and to top it all he has a baby!

“Who’s this one? Yours?” the boy sitting on Walter’s hip reached towards me with bright curiousness.

“This is my son, Howard. I had him thoroughly checked that he was mine.” (Ah. So the wife _was_ cheating.) Howard leaned forward out of his father’s arms towards me. Walter handed him over gladly, wincing as he shook out his arm several times. “Grandfather died a few months ago, in his sleep. I thought of contacting you but none in the Stark family knew where you were, apart from the medals that kept on showing up on the front step.”

“Fighting on the Western Front as an Aussie, and before that, at Gallipoli.” Howard runs his hands over my fists as the claws slowly expand from between the knuckles. His tiny soft hands run over the rough edges of the exposed bone, pausing over the rugged edges and knobbly tip.

“I need to get to Germany,” I start and Walter nods, turning to walk somewhere. Not far away there’s a camera on stilts but no sign of an extra person to man it. “You still love taking photographs?”

“Yeah,” there’s a soft look on his face, one that probably hasn’t passed by in ages. “I’d thought I’d get one of my baby son with the famous Lyall.” As much as the Stark is rolling in money, Walter only takes two photos; a time-delayed photo with all three of us, and a waist-up portrait of Howard and I, both throwing up peace signs at the camera.

“I thought you would call me up for a trip to Germany,” Walter says once he’s finished packing the camera away. “I would’ve thought you’d call earlier because Nick’s been gone for two weeks now-”

“Say that again?”

Walter pauses in pouring a beer for two and turns to stare at me. Howard giggled as the claws disappeared and the exit wounds sealed tight in 1 second flat.

“Nick’s been gone for 10 days; I thought you would’ve known by now because you always seem to know everything.”

Howard begins to pat my face with his soft baby hands, much like Nick used to before his aging finally caught up and he began to mature.

“I’ve been feeling a little off for a while now. Let me guess, taken to Germany?” Oh god, 10 days could mean so _much_.

“HYDRA,” Walter nodded and I hung my head, resting my forehead on Howard’s.

“Take me to Germany, _now_.”

“ク-ク-クズリ!” Howard stumbles over the syllables, proudly smiling at the end. Walter immediately flushes as I glance up, amused.

“There’s a plane that way,” he grumbles as he takes his son out of my arms. “Goodbye, Lyall, and may God be with you.”

[x]

Finding Nick was no easy job, but it wasn’t too impossible. Just like we’d taught him, Nick left several signs all over Germany, from speaking only one word in one town, to drawing childish pictures all over another.

The path he was taken tracked a definite line through Germany, the end of the yellow brick road at Berlin. Whoever had captured Nick had obviously let him roam free a lot, probably not realising that there was a 57-year-old man inside the barely-double-digits body. Plus, Nick had perfected the ‘speshul’ act in his years with Gerrant and Queen Victoria.

 Nick was sitting in a dirty, stinking jail like he was king, just waiting for his kick arse servant (coughblackbutlercough) to turn up and beat his captives. He didn’t even move as the guards around him fell one by one screaming and kicking as they were brutally murdered by claws.

“11 days it took you.” Nick even had the nerve to pretend to check a wrist watch as the iron bars holding him in were ripped from their places. “Let me guess, the Starks didn’t know where you were.”

“Gee, how’d you guess?”

“Victor’s been captured by HYDRA for 12 months now, and they kind of didn’t expect you not reacting until now. _I_ think they’ve run out of patience and took me to prod you along.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I have to agree with all that. Let’s get you to a bath; you smell absolutely revolting.”

“Ugh, you have no idea.”

[x]

“This is a trap you know,”

Nick sits in the side seat, not daring to lean his head on the window as the cobblestones give the car’s tyres more than enough leverage to continuously throw us into the air. The clothes he’s calmly taken from some lady’s clothes lines are surprisingly neat and coloured a nice, deep black that spoke of money. His skin and his clothes almost make him blend into the background of grey Berlin.

“Oh, I know. But it’s Victor, and he’s my brother so what the fuck, let’s do it.”

“And me?”

“Gerrant’s waiting for you at a building I’m about to drop you off at.”

“ _Gerrant?_ Are we both thinking about the living skeleton?”

“He’s found another illusionist.”

“For someone’s who doesn’t talk to her own _son_ for four fucking years, she sure does know a lot about other people.”

The road’s clear long enough that I can glance at Nick out of the corner of my eye before I have to throw the car into another gear. He’s not looking out of the front window like before, but pointedly glaring out of the hole on his side (we might’ve taken this car for a joy ride).

I sigh.

“Look Nick, I _asked_ you if you wanted me to go out to the war. I _warned_ you that the possibly of me not contacting you for years is bloody high as hell. I’ve sent you _so_ many letters despite the fact of the rules and the possibly people could be looking in on them.”

A barely-there sigh.

“I know, ma, but -” Nick mumbles the next few words. I reach over to lie my hand on his and he automatically intertwines his fingers with mine, rubbing the pads of his fingers over the soft patches where the claws extend.

“I missed you too,” I answer and slow the car to a stop.

Gerrant looks just a touch too much like an art work to really pass a test. With a few coats and wide-brimmed hats, he might be able to pass people in the streets, but not initiate conversation with someone. There’s a few people flanking him, also Immorals, some disgustingly winkled from old age and others in their perfect 20s. Nick bounds up to greet them all warmly, knowing them all well.

The illusionist almost seemed to be peeing her pants when she spots us walking in and recognises me from passing photos. She seemed to be torn between just staying awe struck or greeting me with a bunch of babble, so Nick steps up to make that decision and introduces the two of us.

“You’re my hero!” she shouts and squeaks when she realises what she just did. Gerrant’s body flickers as her face flushes in shame. “Uh! I mean, I love the fact you made the idea of making a home for all mutants, uh, and that LYALL basically exists, and uh, Nick, I like you too – I mean,”

Nick smirks and everyone knows he’s going to flirt with the poor girl, despite being nearly 30 years older than her and physically 10 years younger. By the time I leave Nick in Gerrant’s safe, bony hands, the girl’s face is a bright, flushing red.

[x]

Actively knowing that one was going to walk into a trap takes more courage than movie heroes care to admit. It’s different than the usual ‘I _think_ it’s a trap’ feeling, because there’s always the possibility – no matter how small – that it isn’t a trap, that there isn’t something big, mean and nasty just around the corner.

Yvo’s been dead for some time now. His body was found strung up outside an abandoned building in a ghost town sometime between the Boer War and World War Two. There’ve been several bodies found in similar ways, with the HYDRA octopus branded somewhere on their chest, and they’re always places somewhere that would take ages to find. Some are where we’re not sure if we’ll ever find.

To find Victor is slightly easier than to find Nick; however he was transported allowed him to drag his fingers – nails – along the ground, gorging deep scars into the cobblestone. Sometimes they were tiny valleys and at other times one could barely see the scratches on the road.

Victor wasn’t Berlin – he was in near Enschede, Netherlands, close enough to the border that it counts. The building was just as fortified as the one Mary chose to keep me captured, which is to say, bare as a bone dry desert. This time, instead of keeping Victor in a simple iron bar cell, they’d drilled him to a solid metal wall with god-knows-many poles sticking out of everywhere, including his mouth.

“You do know this is a trap?” Victor coughs up blood all over the dirty air force uniform as soon as the three things stuck in his skull were removed.

“No shit Sherlock. You’re my brother, and you’ve been gone for 12 months now. Not to mention the pole that was in your left eye. I’m _not_ stupid.” It takes roughly 10 minutes to free Victor from the wall, and another minute for him to completely heal.

“You okay with this? You’ll be gone for a while. They made it clear that they want to keep you for at least 10 years.” Victor mumbles into my ear as we rest on the floor, enjoying the moment that one of us probably wouldn’t see for years.

“Nick called me his mother, you know.” Victor huffs in amusement. “I think we’re pretty good parents, aren’t we?”

“Leaving our only son to save the other and not sending letters for years because HYDRA’s probably taken them all.”

“Dropping Jörg with the other mutants because he just couldn’t keep up with the three of us not aging.”

I sigh and move to stand up. There was a soft crunching sound of people quietly walking over dirt and gravel echoing although the once-empty building.

“Leave Victor, I don’t think they want you.”

“Let’s make them believe they have a bargaining tool.”

Victor grunts out a laugh, pretending to lean on me heavily as I begin to shuffle our way from the wall covered in a thick coat of Victor’s blood.

“I woulz stop right zere, Mizz Rai-ral.”

“When you pronounce my name properly, that’s when I’ll start talkin’ to ya.”

Multiple dull shines of a muzzle peaks from the surrounding area. There had been a cave in just above where Victor recently hung, so while the area around our feet was lit up, anything beyond 2 metres from my feet was drenched in black because of the lighting.

Some man in a freshly pressed suit, stops just barely from the edge of the circle. By the dying light it’s hard to tell much of his features, but there’s two noticeable details: he’s incredibly short, and his greasy-yet-meticulously-groomed hair curling around his hips and elbows. Even in the absence of light the little grooves of raised flesh that spoke of a branding peak out from his cuffs; this, evidently, was the current leader of HYDRA.

“Does he really think he’s scaring anyone with that hair?” Victor snorted, finally standing on his own two feet, drawing up on his full height. The man’s eyes – barely little silvers of white – track him going up and up and up, eventually tilting his head back to take in Victor’s complete form. “This is how you scare someone, dick head.”

“Vat ayre ve talkink?!” The man demands, a little shakily. He’s not a very good leader, although the past pack-runners haven’t been very healthy in the mind. Was it because of all the interbreeding?

“ _What do you want,_ ” The man pauses, probably to create a dramatic moment or to wrap his head around the fact that I can speak German.

 “ _We can let your brother go if you come with us._ ” Wow, what a piss poor technique. “ _If you don’t, we’ll shoot you so full of bullets you won’t be able to move. And, in the end, we’ll have both of you._ ”

“Does he know we’ve walked through a wall of bullets so thick they block out the sun? What a fuckin’ idiot.” Victor crouches down into a fighting stance, nails growing longer by the second.

“Victor, wait.” I sigh and he stops, looking up at me in confusion.

“Something to do?”

“Yeah, you’ve got it right.”

A lot of stuff immortals do is basically boils down to _will it waste time? Will I be occupied by this for so long that I’m not reminded of the fact that I will live forever?_

And, yes, that’s why Victor and I have fought in 10 wars so far, including several revolutions and god-knows how many civil wars. It would be great to run around when the Prohibition was making everyone going crazy, even in the depression would be a little fun, but –

In the past, when Mary had stolen 4 years or when the Tunguska explosion buried me for 4 weeks in the dirt, time had been ‘stolen’ from me. Back then, we didn’t know how much of a blessing that was. 4 years? Gone. Thank god. No need to slug around and wait for that time to pass.

There was a difference between gladly handing over ‘time’ and having it stolen from you.

I was _tired_ ; to sleep a 100 years would be a dream, to just skip 1,000 would be better. Sometimes, the future prospect of memory loss was _so_ inviting.

Whatever HYDRA did, they’d better take at least the 10 years they said they would.

“Hopefully I’ll see you in at least 10 years.”

“Wish I could stay.”

“Nick does need someone else other than Gerrant.”

“ _How do I know that you’ll let Victor go?”_ The man seems to swell in pride and ego; after all, he thought he’d persuaded the クズリ to come with him.

“ _Oh, he’ll just be able to walk free of this building with no one with him. You, on the other hand, you’re coming back home with us.”_

“ _Fine, but how do you think you’ll keep me down?”_

Something glinted in the dark, behind the leader, and a pole shot out of the darkness. It buried itself into my stomach, forcing me to stumble back to the wall still coated in my brother’s blood.

Gurgling, blood forced its way up my throat as my hands were forced into the wall much like Victor was. Said brother was standing in shock not a metre away, hands clenched to his sides.

“Are you going to leave, Victor? Don’t worry, I know I can handle this weak-minded fool.”

Victor cast a glance at the smirking shiny shoes, and back to me.

“I know you can. I’m just saying, leave before the Red Skull is in power.”

“I gotcha.”

“Get out of my way,” Victor stalks towards the edge of the circle and the gun muzzles part. While the soldiers were distracted with watching Victor go, the leader creeps towards me.

“ _You’re mine_ ,” He hisses and I _laugh_ , despite the three iron bars gouging into my guts.

Another pole struck in between my open teeth, and the last thing I see is one speeding towards my eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks bruh for reading. I busted my gut writing this, because it had been months since I updated and I felt really bad. Anyway this was going to be my tribute for the ANZACs, in time for ANZAC day – which is the 26th of April. It’s the 23rd of May. I think I missed it.  
> BUT GUYS – I was reading my story again, as in chapter 8 and 9, and _HOLY_ – I can’t believe how bad I was! IT’S HAPPENING, I’M GETTING BETTER GUYS!!  
>  It's a little longer than normal! 5300 words, guys. So proud of myself.


	12. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A simple interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A simple interlude. Meant to post this yesterday but I got some serious period pains and had to go to bed.

# Chapter Twelve (Interlude)

So much _grey_.

The walls are grey; the floor is grey; the door is grey; the poles are grey; the black and brown blood that had dried so long ago had whittled away to a deep shade of grey.

Creaks echoed across the open space as my head tilted left, the bones grinding against each other with sickening sounds, fresh blood welling in the thickness of my swollen throat. There was no energy left in me to even bother opening my mouth to let the thick, metallic yet sweet-tasting liquid out. Barely warm rivulets trickle down my naked torso, a sudden, but welcoming, contrast to my otherwise cold body.

Maybe it's a miracle that they've kept me awake. Maybe it's more of a punishment – punishment for all the lives ended by my hands. My captors beyond the door, so far away, lowly chatter, their tiny voices seemingly so small in the vast iron chamber.

My eyes flutter opens for a few, scarce seconds and droop close when it's clear nothing has changed.

I know I should feel sorry for killing people, but the only emotion I can feel is the anger of not seeing my son; lost on the fields of World War 1 with only my bloodthirsty brother to protect him. Rather than being scared of those who hold me down, I only want to kill _them_.

To grasp my hand around their necks and _squeeze_ is what I dream of. To massacre this miserable place and turn it into a red-drenched slaughterhouse is what I drool over. To get my blood soaked hands on the so-called scientists and see what they truly think of my _mutations_.

I hate the way they've experimented on me. Turned me into the monster I never wanted to be – to be the real, killing machine my brother could only _dream_ of being.

They're already down a hundred and thirteen cannon fodder – shredded into thin strips of loose meat, bones cut clean, grey brain matter thrown atop the blood splatters on the floor like cake toppings, their limbs torn apart and torso peppered with thin slivers of entry wounds from knives as big as my head and as tiny as my pinke – and they would lose more if it wasn't for the iron bars impaled through multiple vital functions, pining me down to the wall behind me.

There's one punctured low on my right hip, five embedded in my legs, at least ten times more in my arms, even a bar through the side of me, impairing my ability to breathe and to process food and water, brushing my feeble, weak heart every time one of my torso muscles constrict.

Sometimes my captors purposely put a stake through my head and sometimes I still wake up during those times, unable to string a thought together due to an object through my _brain_ , sometimes my spinal cord is severed, leaving my body hanging from the poles like the Japanese weather charms and other times the agonising pain freezes me in place, unable to simply pass out.

I still underestimate my god-like healing factor.

A low _thunk_ erupts from the wall as I let my head fall backwards. Today – and I use that term very loosely – my upper body leans away, leaving me stuck high up in the air in a strange angle. But this was intentional.

The unused muscles in my arm grip around the odd-25 poles, reliving the weight from my legs. Ever so slightly my legs drag forward, their path leaving floods of fresh, bright red blood; the pitter-patter of liquid falling from great heights increases with every centimetre a body part slides off the poles, millimetre by millimetre.

But today wasn't the day I would escape and rage war against who was beyond the iron cage. The small exercise steals all the air in my lungs, sapping at the remaining strength.

But I was so _close_.

Whether it would be tomorrow, or next week, I would escape and slowly kill every single living soul residing in this god-awful bunker.

I will use the iron bars they used to tether me down to crack open their skulls, I will use the guns to mow them down, I will take advantage of their experiments on me, sending them mad or painting the unforgiving walls with their blood.

I will take all the lives, slowly, sometimes one at a time, sometimes five hundred in one hour, and when I am left without any soldiers to murder, I will finally turn on the scientists. I will use their techniques against them; I will empathetically whisper sweet words of freedom into their ears as I slice open their chest; I will show them their intestines when they're so doped up on morphine that they can't tell if they're alive or not; I will keep them in a constricted area and when they finally beg for death I will bring in their family and kill them, all of them, right in front of everyone.

I will _destroy_ for what they've done.

I will _kill_ to see my son again.


	13. 十三

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The lack of heat presses into my chest, cheek and arms, dissolving the drowsiness of waking up after a bullet in the brain. The ice cold feeling of metal kicking short, sharp breaths into my lungs and the previous quiet air of tiny yet persistent beeps and clicks of machines giving way to shuddering German and quiet prayers to God._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just got back from a 6 week trip to Europe so this and the next few chapters might talk about old stuff and have a more focus on the inhuman side of WW2 (yeah, I’m talking about the concentration camps).
> 
> Some of this was written while being forced to listen to Romeo and Juliet (ugh, I hate Shakespearian English) so some of it might sound like someone’s grandma.
> 
> ## There is a torture scene ahead. If not your thing, follow what the headers say

# Chapter Thirteen

The lack of heat presses into my chest, cheek and arms, dissolving the drowsiness of waking up after a bullet in the brain. The ice cold feeling of metal kicking short, sharp breaths into my lungs and the previous quiet air of tiny yet persistent beeps and clicks of machines giving way to shuddering German and quiet prayers to God.

“ _Oh my god she’s awake_ ,” someone whimpered as if the apocalypse had just dawned. The room erupts into the high pitched squealing as multiple waffle stompers scream in panic as they’re dragged against the floor. Several loud crashes and clangs of metal smashing into metal were anterior to more loud cries of rubber.

There’s no clasps around my wrists, no objects speared through any limbs, nothing to signify that I’m trapped here. The low buzzing feeling of the healing factor tingles as it works over time to fix my crushed eyes, beaten wrists, puncture holes and the observe heavy liquid clogging my stomach.

“ _Please don’t kill us._ ” They wait for something, the heavy breathing and the tell-tale frantic pace of a frightened heart resonating all around, pressing into my newly healed, sensitive ears. The unknown liquor gathers in my stomach, too foreign to let be. The vile elixir swells, forcing the natural response of throwing up to activate.

At first, there’s nothing but dry air and disgusting, retching sounds forcing its way out of the back of my throat. Then, a slow trickle wiggles up my throat, coating the walls of the oesophagus. As soon as it touches my tongue, my body shuddering in disgust, reacting according to the turpitude taste.

Excessive amounts of the wretched fluid force itself up and _out_ , leaving intervals of varying amounts. Just as the last of the _stuff_ empties out from my stomach onto the cold iron mortuary table, my vision clicks in, throwing my balance out for a horrifying few seconds. The table groans and tips over, wheels flying out under it. The (rather dull) pain of the marble floor nearly smashing in my hip rattles me, shocking the hypnagogic feeling out of the fluff-filled space where my brain was supposed to be.

Half-concealed behind barely technology lumps of metal miched cloaked men, clothed in the finest material available when HYDRA captured me. There was at least ten scattered around the room, all in different stages of panic.

Pooled around me like some protective halo was a lustrous, rich gold puddle, catching the weak lights and turning that brightness into a blinding brilliance printed onto my eyes. It hurt to stare at it for too long, but it was so pretty.

Something dribbled down the crease of my chin, and I reached up to touch it, thinking it was only blood to wipe away. What came away was the exact same radiance that sat under my legs; despite it being so gorgeous and luminous, it felt like some sin to have this golden liquid inside, like it had booked me a one-way ticket to hell.

My legs were already under me before I knew it and scrambled away from the puddle; the men around me reacted to my sudden movement with shouts and yells, machines tipping sideways as they shoved anything out of their away to get away from me.

It takes a few moments for my encephalon to right itself, to transmogrify from its ugly drug-induced wool-gathering as the open split over my crown seals itself at the same time. Despite the powerful healing factor inducing multiple organs to fix themselves, it takes a few moments for the power to move limbs beyond the jittery attempts to right the balance of my body to return to coherent thoughts.

 The few dozen metal instruments come into focus in front of my eyes, all scattered across the ground - there are items I do not know of, have never seen before, and with the decorated dried blood on nearly all of them they have stepped out of a B-rated horror movie.

It does not take a fully-healed brain to realise that was _my_ blood.

“ _Lady,”_ Someone approaches.

I try to reply, to shout, to whisper, but nothing comes out but panting and a low, wet gurgle of sounds. It was almost instant to tip forward and let more liquid fall. At least, this time, it was blood.

“ _Lady -”_ He seems like he was about to say something, paused, tried again and yet couldn’t finish. Was he searching what to say next? Was he try to be polite and not point out that they had just been experimenting on me? “ _Ah,”_

It takes a few seconds for the energy to gather, the energy to lift my heavy head and look at the man in the eye. There is not a strand of hair in sight – they must’ve chopped it off to look at my head.

“Can you let me go?” I breathe, barely realising that I’m talking at all, let alone speaking English to Germans. “I want to see Nick – _please,_ I want to see Victor and Nick again.”

“I, ah, _of course, I mean,_ of course.” The cape of white moves next to me, a band of white slithering under my right arm and gripping me. The man whispers words that escape me, slowly bringing my upper body with him. It takes minutes for me to regain my standing, and although the healing factor is slowing down now that nearly everything was back to order – even tiny strands of hair were pushing through my scalp – the effect of the golden liquid still impose against my thoughts, and the psychological effect of waking halfway through a live surgery still steal strength.

“ _Quick, get a chair. Now. Call Erskine.”_

The room doesn’t quite explode into a flurry of movement; one man quickly totters off, another dragging along, what presumably is, a chair. The other men began to chatter quietly, although a few do come closer to help me sit down.

Heavier steps, although not commanding, shuffle into the room. Stopping to the left of me. I raise my head to look at him, aware that I shouldn’t be able to do so.

“ _Are you a mutant?”_ is all he asks. It’s straight and right to the point. I nod, not ready to speak again. “ _Is healing your ability?”_

 _“One of them.”_ I croak, and all he does is nod along. He’s off again, righting the table, carefully picking up the items and setting them on desks higher than I can see. The scientists keep a wide berth, but it’s hard to tell if they were giving some breathing space or they were afraid to come close.

The man who spoke seconds ago comes and goes, small enquiries needing nothing more than a nod or a shake. With the huge strain from healing all the surgery cuts, tiredness descends, smoothing out my breathing, relaxing the tense muscles and once more closing down the sharp thoughts.

[x]

This time, the bed is softer.

The fabrics are different from anything I’ve felt before – it is softer than the everyday textile the Victorians use yet the course material still signifies how little it would cost and the pillow gives just that little more. I twist as little as I can, trying to keep movements to a minimum. The fact that my knee hits a cold wall collapses that plan, the dull thud loud enough to notify anybody.

With some resentment, I rise. The bed is held in some niche in the wall, with enough space so a grown man could sit without discomfort. There are several books, some in English, most in German, stacked in dozens, in rows and crowd around the room. The walls are plastered with diagrams, faded from time and an about only two sources of light in the room – a lamp light on the desk and one hanging from the roof by a single thread.

The books are divided – one clear path from the door, passing the desk and ends at the bed. Even then there is a little line of books leaning against the wall under the bed. There aren't that many books for the floor to be completely covered so it’s not that hard to guess that they’re bedtime books.

There’s no pain from setting my feet on the floor and luckily enough it was perfectly fine to stand up. There’s no raised alarm as I wonder out the door; there're no guards on watch outside the door. For the first time in years, there’s nothing to stop me doing whatever I want.

[x]

The building is simple. The walls are a dull colour but are broken by windows that have a dark background beyond a dimly lit town. The dirt on the glass blurs it, so nothing but the lights gets through. Small voices pass behind me, taking no interest. They don’t spare anything but a glance at me as they go, leaving to where ever needs their presence.

A few more pass, going back and forth in one particular hallway. As I pass more rooms to see tiny rooms with beds, one man stops nearby.

“ _If you are looking for the place where the science happens, follow in the direction where everyone is leaving.”_ He smiles and leaves. It is hard to determine if he knew who I was or if he thought another guest had gotten lost.

More people pass me, and it isn’t until a pair pass chatting about their recent test does it take to me that this place is a simple, public science experimental house. To think that HYDRA would truly let me go to stay in an unaffiliated man… that would be impossible.

A man spots me and his arms slacken, books dropping to the ground. He garbles, trying to find his words as I stare at him, a touch amused.

“ _I take it that you know of me.”_ His mouth closes with a snap and merely looks down to the floor. “ _How?”_

 _“_ There is a foundation with the same letters as your names _.”_ He whispers, English low and barely heard as if it is a dark and dreary secret. “I dare do not speak its name as there is rumoured a section that deals with us.”

“I know; I woke up on their examination table.” This fact seemed to shock him. “It is not a great section, but they let me go once they realised I was still kicking.” The man gapes and I chuckle, threading my fringe through my fingers, guiding it until my face is clear to see.

“It is nice meeting you, but I must warn you to leave. I fear HYDRA is almost upon this building as soon they learn I am awake. Take all the other mutants in this house and go to the nearest Legion, wherever this place is.” He nods, but still waits for something. He clasps his hands together and a little light blooms between his fingers.

“I offer you this in place for all the hope you have given us.” He takes his left hand away from his right, revealing an unidentifiable flower. He holds it out, and as I take it, he gestures to one of the petals. Words so faint are written that they need a sharp eye to read were etched to the side – _thank you_ – and it is one of the kindest things I have received for so long.

“If you want I could add a stem. This will last as long as I live.” His eyes flicker from mine to the flower resting in the palms of my hands. Once I nod he gestures again, the surrounding light gathering to solidify.

“Thank you,” the stem is sturdy as hell, not creasing or breaking as I wrap it through my fingers, unlike a usual flower stem, but is as stiff as one.

“No, thank _you._ ” He says, and I know the speech that is coming. It has been said over and over, with every mutant I find. “You gave us a home from the humans, you opened our eyes to other mutants. You showed us that _we weren’t alone._ ”

He bows, and crouches to gather his books. “You’re everyone’s hero, Lyall.” And then, he leaves. The little flower does not glow like the sun or a flame. For now, I leave it to rest in my hair, tying back the long strands.

As I continue from the spot we stood, out of everyone’s way and hearing range, it became more obvious that I had woken at night time as the closer I moved towards the examination rooms. True, there were fewer people, but there was one man who stood stock still in a large room that connected most together.

Looking through the windows, anyone could see plants, bubbling liquids, scientists who were camping over night to watch their test. It was a little like the simple, childish experiments Amy conducted in high school science.

“ _Hello_ ,” the man speaks, tapping my shoulder. I turn to see him leafing through pages of paper, looking for something. “ _Ma’am, are you looking for the new physical examination division? It’s the last door on the right, up this corridor_.”

“ _Thank you.”_ He nods and returns to his station on the other side of the room. It occurs to me that he is the past version of a reception. Despite what the mutant had said about there being a rumoured new section, the plaque was clearly displayed with absolutely no shame at eye level.

_Physical Examination Division (Mutational)_

I knock politely, not quite expecting what was beyond the wooden planks. All I could remember was a metal table, a beautiful liquid that was painful to look at and kind men who despite my resurrection didn’t treat me as a demon straight away.

One person answers it within a few beats, looking surprised to see me behind the door. He pauses, the awkward silence stretching until he realises why I am there. He opens the door completely and lets me go through.

The head scientist is there again. This time with perfectly healed sight and a brain to transfer short term memories to long term, his appearance is easier to memorise. His head has a thinning bald patch on the top of his head, dark hair threaded with grey coating the sides of his skull. His eyes are grey, pinning down whatever he saw as his eyes flickered everywhere. It was not nervousness, it was a dominating scientist habit – this was copied in the way his answers were always short and clipped, hopping from one to another, giving the best answers in the shortest amount of time possible.

His other features – a white scientist coat, a suit under that, two expensive pens residing in his pocket, another in his hand – all seemed to be simple clothes when compared to the other men in the division, however, this man used it to raise his presence in the room.

“ _Herr Erskine, Frau Howlett is here.”_ A man beside Erskine’s shoulder interrupts, nodding towards myself and the man who showed me inside.

 _“Frau Howlett,”_ the head scientist greets. “ _I was not expecting you to be up so early.”_

 _“I have learned to not underestimate my healing ability,_ Mr Erskine, _it can go far.”_

_“Is that so? I would love to find the truth behind your statement, however, I have experimented on your body far too long without your consent. You were beneath our tools for nearly a week before someone removed the bullets in your head.”_

_“Ah, yes, that is why I have come back before I leave.”_ The man furrows his brows “ _Do you know the company you took my body from?”_

 _“Yes, they are from the new Nazi science group. They had a fascination with hydras.”_ He takes a sheet from a nearby desk, pointing to the cherry red HYDRA stamp in one of the corners. “ _I take they do not like what we’ve done to you.”_

 _“Oh, they didn’t care what you did even if you raped me.”_ Erskine’s eyes brow shoot up at this, even some of the men around us took a moment from their experiments to stare. “ _What went wrong for you guys is that I woke up. I bet one man in this division is in league with HYDRA and has notified them to exterminate this place. I suggest evacuating this building, although they might already know about every man who has stepped onto this site.”_

 _“Oh,”_ Erskine stares daggers into his clipboard, clenching his pen. “ _Are you sure?”_

_“Who else would put me in that state you got me in? I had about two dozen holes in my body, right? Well, they think it’s fun to hold me down by drilling iron poles through my body and into the ground. Make sure I don’t run away or murder all their guards. Also, I had some terrible surgery scares on my arms, right? They like sending amateur biologists to conduct ‘experiments’ and they don’t care how awful their skill is because, hey, it’s gonna heal itself anyway.”_

The men start to nod and exchange horrified looks halfway through my speech.

“ _You said that they’ll hunt down the whole residents of this building.”_

_“Well then, you better get started and tell everyone to skip the pond. I would recommend Australia – nobody knows who the hell you are and you’re just a statistic in the waves of immigration.”_

Erskine stares off into the distance, thinking hard. He hesitates, still looking unconvinced.

“ _It might work if you destroy all student records here and I hunt down the man who works for them.”_ This time, he looks more relieved; he takes authoritative steps towards the door. A man passes him a rusted iron box – a lighter – as he leaves.

As soon as the door snaps shut behind him, the room erupts into chaos.

Although it was hard to admit to Erskine, every man under him was HYDRA. It was a simple plan to use his expertise and brilliant mind. No wonder why nobody was so shocked when I launched off that table.

The people closest to me pulled out guns from behind capes, desks and out of drawers. Five of them were dead before they could ready their gun. It takes a few more people to collapse, choking on their blood, for them to realise that guns while their only hope to survive, did nothing to slow me down. Only one man shot me before they gave up, and then the hold off descended into a merciless slaughter by yours truly.

The last man I had stabbed through his arm, pinning him down the floor. His other arm pushes vainly against me, pain morphing his face.

## Warning: Explicit torture. If not your thing, please skip to the next header.

 _“HYDRA scum! You thought you could defeat me! You thought you could hold me down! See how you feel being the one on the other side!”_ As I stand up, I stomp repeatedly on his wound, cherishing his cries.

One of my hands scrabble around the table next to us, the instruments drawing blood before I finally choose a bone cutter.

“ _Feel lucky that you’re the last one to survive,”_ I snarl. “ _I remember you! You were the one who tore out my claws from inside my arm.”_ I grip the cutter and saddle his stomach. He looks up at me in pain and terror, shrinking into himself. He screams as I drive the bone cutter down, using all my strength behind it. His bone snaps in two.

“ _How about your friend over there? The one who I speared his eyes with my claws?”_ the man doesn’t look, so I take the bloody hand and wrench his face to his left. “ _He had the honour of dying before I could dish out my revenge. I was hoping to peel back the soles of his feet and force him to walk, just like he did with me. Oh, wait! There’s still one person left!”_

The man started to cry, tears gathering at the corners of strained eyes.

“ _Did I permit you to start crying? NO!”_ he jerks back at the sudden shout. “ _Oh, and what about your true head scientist, the man still pinned to the wall when I speared him with an iron pole through his heart? He liked to slice through my guts, fooling around with the organs and ripping out my reproductive system as slow as he could, saying that I wouldn’t need it anymore. And guess what?”_

He whimpers. “ _Answer the question!”_

 _“…I’m still alive?”_ he starts all out bawling there, healthy arm and legs pushing to get away from me.

“ _That’s right! And do you know what else is right? I didn’t need those ovaries! I stopped having my period decades ago! But it! Still! Hurt!”_ The last sentence was punctured with every time I drove the bone cutter into his other arm’s bone and into his gut, slicing his reproductive system over and over until his eyes rolled back and he slumped back, unconscious from the toll of shock and pain.

“Weak arse BITCH-” I raise the tool again, driving it down and down again, his body convulsing with every blow. “Can’t even FUCKING take what you little SHITS dished out!”

## Continue here – Torture over

“Howlett! _”_ A new voice interrupts; I realise that Erskine had opened the door long ago, watching the brutal murder. _“The man is nearly dead. Kill him and let him be.”_ He stares down at me, and only at me, straining to not look at the blood bath behind me, although I suppose it was hard to ignore the blood splatters decorating my face.

“ _Can’t stand to see a friend being murdered by a girl you just met?”_ I snarl, driving the cutter one last time just below his heart, leaving it there.

“ _I had my suspicions. If we want to escape before HYDRA arrives, then we must leave now.”_

I laugh, bending over the dead body underneath me.

 _“It’s fucking HOPELESS! I was planted here so HYDRA could evaluate the skill you,_ Abraham Erskine, _the greatest scientist since Einstein left the country, possess!”_ Something dawns in his eyes – the cold, hard realisation of the truth. “ _That’s right, they’re coming to get_ you.”


	14. 十四

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Experiment time with Erskine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha, its the 3rd of Oct. Sorry for posting so late but *lists 15 different excuses that nobody will care about* so anyway, here you go!  
> Hey, do _you_ think I'm improving?

# Chapter Fourteen

_“Lyall? I removed the last bullet. Do you want to get up?”_

…

_“Okay. I’ll pretend that you’re dead.”_

[x]

I had been awake for some time, but I wasn’t in any rush to announce it to the world, so after a few hours of zoning out, I come to my senses, only to find myself on another metal table. Yet, this time, there’s no foul liquid in my stomach or intestines strung in loops over my body. Slowly, I sit up, thankful that there're no restraints.

A few steps away from the cluster of metal tables on wheels and shining medical tools a white coat sits hunched over stacks and stacks of dirty white sheets of paper, the scratch of a pen the only sign that he’s alive.

“Do you even speak English?” Erskine drops his pen in surprise, turning around at lightning speed. At the sight of me awkwardly trying to make myself comfortable on the table, his shoulders relax, once again picking up the pen and fiddling with it.

“Yes, but I can only hold a conversation. If I want to talk about science, then it has to be in German. Why?” Gently I set my feet on the tiled floor, and shakily make my way over to his desk. Erskine deserts it, curiously watching over my shoulder as I observe the notes he had taken.

“I may not be able to understand most of this, but I know that this is incorrect and I’m guessing you’ve never heard of DNA?” Erskine leans forward to analyse the equation I pointed out, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “No, of course not, it’s the early 30s and it’s discovered in the 70s or around about there.”

Erskine follows the pen grasped in my hand and watches as I correct and scribble over countless of hours’ work. He pauses, picking up one discarded piece of paper and hesitantly writes a few more words in German on the side.

“You…” he pauses, face screwing up with disbelief “can also see the future?”

“No, but let’s just leave it at that.” He pauses, questions hanging off his lips, but he thinks twice and simply flattens out a single page from a mountain of scrunched up paper.

“Could you help me with this?” he asks, drawing over a simple stool – but it wasn’t like my chair was any better – and runs his hands over the surface to once again smooth out the wrinkles.

I open my mouth to say yes but a sudden thought snaps it shut again.

Just by glancing over the pages it’s clear that Schmidt had demanded a biological upgrade. Some of the dates record from nearly five years ago so it’s clear that Erskine has been working on this for a long time. This would be the work that unperfected, resulted in our ugly captor falling short of a perfect human, and in the longer run, Captain America.

In the movies – or comics, pick and choose – Erskine had no help with his serum. He probably had to kill several people, people who HYDRA had snatched up off the streets (and they were probably Jews with how the world socially stood today) and experiment with their cooling bodies.

With me as his test subject, he could confidently say that one result from me was A1 since the healing ability put me a few steps behind the would-be-Captain America. That would save Erskine some time as if he had random people off the streets he would have to repeat the test over and over until he was satisfied that the results he had gotten were typical and not outliers.

And, if I helped him with his theory knowledge, then that would be a boon to HYDRA. And who was to say that this would end up with Red Skull born earlier and Erskine escaping Germany, far too early to meet Steve Rogers, and the resulting domino effect.

What should I _do_?

Erskine seemed to sense the conflict inside my head, pausing and leaning away.

“Are you okay?” He asks, carefully placing his pen on the desk as quietly as he could as to not disturb me.

“There’s a reason why I don’t really like telling people I know what the future holds.” I turn the chair to face him with my whole body. His eyes were wide, curious and held a little flame of fear. “I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the concept of time travel, but if I change the future too much then my knowledge will be useless. I only know of 2 futures, but one is already nullified by my presence.”

Erskine doesn’t dare to say anything.

“If I teach you future knowledge of science, then you _must_ promise me that you will try to sabotage your work so Schmidt cannot get his hands on the serum until the last possible moment, and when he does, make sure you give him an incomplete form of the liquid.

“I understand,” Erskine murmurs, but I’m not done yet.

“If you can do this, I will help you escape and you must go to America and create a soldier with the complete form. But only _one_. America is too arrogant – it will get drunk on the power. I don’t care how you do it but only create one super soldier. And make sure to find a soldier that has known the struggles being weak and powerless and make sure you warn him about everything. And if you do live through the next war, do not use the knowledge I am about to give you to create anything. If you have to kill yourself, so be it. If you don’t have the courage, then pretend that you’ve hit your head and you’ve forgotten everything.” Erskine blinks at the barrage of words. He closes his eyes, and his shoulders sag as if the weight of what could happen presses down on his mind.

“If I find that you’ve gone outside my rules then so god help you, I _will_ hunt you the fuck down.” Erskine opens his eyes again, only to stare a hole through the stacks of papers resting on his desk.

“My family is probably dead; I saw them being snatched away to live in the concentration camps.” Erskine seems to be talking to himself. He slips back into his mother language, muttering too softly and too fast for me to comprehend.

“I understand what you’re saying.” He grimaces. No, he doesn’t, he hasn’t grasped the true weight of the situation, but it will have to do.

“Good. I’ll go over the plan later but for now, let’s return back to the papers. You’ll have to explain a few of the German terms to me, and then I’ll start correcting it. If you don’t understand a minor detail, ask. I have knowledge of science that _shouldn’t_ be fully discovered until over a hundred years later.”

“Right,” Erskine nods, listening intently. “What words don’t you know?”

[x]

That night, around 9pm, some HYDRA hunks come storming in, grab my neck, hair and arms and shove a pole through my heart. It takes a few seconds of struggling before the healing ability realises that it cannot repair my heart with an iron bar through it, so it sends me into unconsciousness. This aggressive behaviour from HYDRA was uncalled for; I would’ve gone willingly without spilling a drop of blood until they shove me into the usual metal-shelled box and nail me to a wall with the spikes again.

Erskine would later tell me that they would drag me into his workshop at 8:05am on the dot and I would wake up 2 minutes after he removed whatever was hindering my mutation. From there we would either teach me new German vocab or I would explain, to my best ability, how exactly the human body works. Although Amy had been a teacher, this was science, not a language.

There was nothing to disrupt the continuous dull days, excluding the occasional visit from nosy HYDRA scientists (who couldn’t understand a thing we did, as I had taught Erskine a few words in the strange language) and Schmidt himself. There was even a visit from Hitler himself, although I had to play dead on the table as Erskine was testing something on me and had cut my chest wide open.

Although it didn’t stop me from turning my head to wherever he was standing and following him with my eyes (he didn’t return after that).

[x]

“Your healing ability is amazing,” Erskine comments as he cleans my blood from his tools. The experiment had not gone as planned, so we were kind of in a slump, unsure what to do without sending the experiment into a further unwelcome phase. “It’s at a constant move, searching through your body, at the beck and call of nerves and completely destroys anything alien. And even though a normal human needs excessive energy to come even close to healing a broken leg at your speed, you don’t even need to eat for a year.”

I smile, a little confused. This was the first time anyone had really complimented my healing ability. In the past, there was more of a sarcasm touch to their words.

“But I’m curious about the infestation on your chest. The healing ability is countering it with ease, but it seems like it can’t fully remove it.” Erskine circles a little area of skin on my back, before returning to his cleaning. Then what he says dawns on me.

“Whoa whoa whoa, wait a mo, what infection?” Erskine pauses and gives me a strange look.

“It looks like it’s been there since early birth.” He continues, idly picking up another sharp item. “It looks like, with today’s medical technology, it would’ve been easily destroyed, but you’ve told me that you met Queen Victoria several times. Victorian so-called techniques were basically praying to a god and giving medicines that made you sicker than before.”

“No fucking wonder I was so sick as a child,” I grumble, picking up a knife that still had blood on it, driving it deep into the area Erskine had previously pointed out. “I’m actually a Georgian, although it was only a few years after my birth before Queen Victoria took the crown. And besides, I was born in Canada so technically I’m not even a Georgian.”

Erskine pauses to leave his cleaned tools and walks over to carefully remove the knife. He looked amused – as much as one could have looked amused in this dreary place. “You are just a mess of contradictions and surprises, aren’t you? Anyway, I’m sure I could heal it, although with the old medicines may have damaged it beyond normal human standards.”

“Bah, we can just say this is another investigation of the human body so our knowledge of biology will increase.” I lie back down on the metal table, my back exposed to Erskine’s tender mercies.

It was cured, but not before Erskine administered dose after dose of concentrated medicine that would’ve killed a normal person with one drop. The stuff that was my healing ability (we haven’t even tried to examine it or even name it in hopes to sabotage the experiment) seemed to be a little confused when the infection was gone, so to test it I shot myself in the hand and timed it.

Before, it took thirty seconds for my hand to completely heal. Now it only took five to ten seconds.

Erskine looked at my hand in shock.

“Thanks, mate,” I say, grinning. Now it would be even harder for HYDRA to hold me down. True to my suspicions, I could stay awake when stabbed in the heart and retained a little strength in my arms. My next goal was to see what happened if I cut my hand off.

[x]

Despite the value of my presence in Erskine’s experiment, there were several times where I had been carted off to a concentration camp for several months, years, and I would _not_ like to repeat my experience there, thank you. It was through these day trips I had uncovered the harsh truth that Erskine’s family had long died in the gas chambers on one small execution camp.

(The funny thing was that Amy had visited Dachau, one of the camps, in her life hood. Her mother had said that the pictures were a little shocking, but it didn’t even come close to capturing the true bloodiness of the camps.)

Nearly 5 years into our capture – Erskine and I had grown _very_ good at sabotage – World War II was announced, and Schmidt was getting more and more demanding. Two more years into the bloody worldwide massacre Schmidt finally snapped, constantly appearing in the room, so more often than not we couldn’t do the weekly event of burning a few of the papers with critical research data.

It was in 1943 that we completed the incomplete form of the serum – shockingly, it turned out to be vibrant red, almost like the colour his skull would turn out to be. While Schmidt was off with the incomplete serum, probably drugging himself up and resulting with the residential Most Hideous Person of the Century, he left the stronghold leaving a rather startling lack of guards.

Although getting rid of the infection from my childhood had accelerated my healing ability, I also had learnt how to slow down my healing ability due to all the experiments Erskine had to perform inside my body (and he couldn’t do that while my body constantly healed itself), so as far as HYDRA was concerned, I couldn’t be awake whenever they impale a spike through my heart, I couldn’t gather enough energy to tear out the poles cleverly shoved through the spaces between my ribs and I certainly did not know the weakness in the armour the guards wore.

Needless to say, I stealthily made my way from my cage to Erskine’s room, silently killing each guard I came across.

Erskine was waiting, although I had not said a peep to him about my plan. His belongings only extended to a photo of his family and a little drawing from his youngest child, even though he knew that they had departed this world years ago. Behind his person, a wild raging fire burnt through everything, thick clouds of smoke pouring out from the doorway.

“Are you okay?” he says, as I get up off the floor. To forcibly open his door, I had to throw myself at it after jamming my claws at the lock and hinges. “You look… kind of tired.”

“I haven’t had much exercise lately. And I just threw myself at a metal door.” Already the bruises of doing such act had long disappeared. From down the hall, voices gathered, footsteps slapping the grey floor. They had finally noticed; it was time for us to leave.

“After you?” I smirk, opening the doorway. Erskine launches out, immediately turning left, opposite from the voices. I grasp his collar and lead him down the path to the voices. “Not that way, that goes deeper. After all, that’s where my cage is.”

“ _Found the escapees! Open fire! Make sure you aim for the female!”_ I shove Erskine into an alcove at the sound of the German, covering his hiding place with the remains of the door.

The hallway floods with men. It takes a few seconds for my claws to appear, shocking the guards; they had never seen them before. The few seconds of pausing is everything I need. It doesn’t take long for the back to realise that I knew of every weakness the guards had, and once I had picked up several guns to aid my deadly attack, they knew they were no match for a beast like me.

Nearly every second brought along another bullet biting into my skin, the accelerated healing ability pushing the bullets out one after another, smoothly healing until it was like nothing happened. And although I was far superior to any of them, they had strength in numbers. It took 30 minutes to nearly completely clear the attack, and halfway through the first 10 minutes, some guards had come from the opposite direction. By the 25th minute, it had degraded to a sniper war.

I sat waiting for a few more minutes until I dragged Erskine from his cover. His face was white as a sheet and he was blinking rapidly as if he had squeezed his eyes shut the whole time.

“Quick, they’re gonna come back. They always seem to have an infinite number of guards.”

The trek was long and hard. Erskine had no fighting ability beyond holding out a gun and hoping that it would hit the correct target. Luckily, the news of the numerous guns in my hand had not reached their ears so several had rounded a corner and suddenly find themselves lying on the floor, about to meet death in seconds. I had a very good shot after living through so many wars.

By luck, we stumbled across the transport docks. As I ran through the trucks, murdering the occasional unlucky guard stowed away in the mess of cars, Erskine quickly ducked outside to observe the outside world.

He quickly returned to find that I had warmed up a truck for us. His grim face was everything I needed to know.

“They’ve surrounded the exit. There're several machine guns just waiting out there, not to count the hundreds of lackeys. How can we get out?” A touch of despair entered his voice as he sagged against the truck. I look around, nodding to myself as I spot several missile launches and other big machinery.

“Not to worry friend. It only means that we will have to split. I probably will be captured again.” Erskine lowered his head and murmured something in a language that I could not understand or identify.

“I do not care. You are the important piece of the chess board with Red Skull as our enemy. First, find out where you are. Get to Switzerland, and find the nearest Stark. Say I sent you and I ask that you will get to America as soon as possible. When you get there, contact the government, although I suspect that Stark would figure out why and do it for you.”

“When I get to America, make one super soldier and never do another. Once that is done, forget everything you’ve taught me.” Erskine gives my shoulder a pat. “This may be the last time we see each other.” I keep the fact that I know it would be to myself.

“I suggest scouting out people at the enlisting things. Maybe do the one at the Stark Con, or whatever it’s called.” I throw open the door and lift my legs out of the compartment.

“I’ll make a distraction. When I wave with both arms, go. I’ll make sure to open the gates.”

And I drop out of the truck, running towards the closest machine that looked like it had the most power. With several launches from the machine, the roof was destroyed. Now, it was time to launch the real machines against the mini army outside.

The explosions from breaking open the roof drew more to gather. They understood that only numbers could defeat me, and even though I can easily turn their weapons against them, I am only one person.

I leave several machine guns on auto, leaving it to vomit bullets to the front lines. Next, I take one of the tanks and fire shells after shell onto the gathered patches through the open roof. By then, the nearby walls had been nearly completely obliterated, so there was nothing between me and the guards.

I set up more machine guns as the other ones fail or run out of bullets.

It’s constant. I lose track of what I do. With every second gone, more and more guards die. Once the number had been reduced to under a hundred, I throw a shell from a tank at the gate and wave at Erskine. He had been sitting in the truck for an hour. Who was to say that escaping was quick?

I run out to take on the left over guards. They crowd around me like primary school students playing football, bullets hitting each other more than they hit me. Some of the guards had done on-the-spot upgrade to their armour, covering some of the weak spots I had used previously. But they still can’t protect the back of the neck. Damn shame, huh?

Erskine’s departure isn’t unnoticed; I have to attack the guards who try to attack the leaving truck rather than the ones closest to me. With the added movement of tracking down those who turned their gun on the truck, a creeping feeling weighs down my arms, leaving my attacks sluggish and tired.

It brings me back to my childhood. It takes a few seconds for me to identify it as _exhaustion._

But – I’ve never felt exhaustion before! I panic, trying to run away from the guards rather attacking them.

Without me constantly weaving between the mass of men, they easily take aim and three bullets are emptied into my brain, five more slicing my heart into ribbons. I stumble, collapsing on the spot. A lucky man jumps on my back, driving a knife as long as my forearm into my heart and into the ground. Other people pin my arms and legs down with the same technique.

I struggle, but I’m just so _tired_.

I’m scared. The last time I felt so tired was when Mary had given me the liquid that momentarily halted my healing factor to a degree. However, I could feel my healing ability repairing the tears and wounds. Everything was fine – except I was slipping. Darkness falls over my eyes, and my thoughts become loose and disconnected.

I drop all struggles, knocked unconscious.


	15. 十五

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erskine happens, that's what.  
> I think. Lemme check.  
> ...  
> No, Erskine was last chapter. THIS chapter is someone called BUCKYYYYYYYY.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit I've been waiting for this particular scene it took me 15 chapters and over a year to get here pat on my back i am surprised kept it going this long.  
> meant to update sooner, never opened my laptop. :)

# Chapter Fifteen

HYDRA had upgraded their guns.

Unlike the usual bullet type that was easy to ignore, these new guns spat out wads of blue mass that squirmed, shuddered and collapsed into itself. I had not been on the end of those nozzles, but Red Skull (now completely in his horrifying ugly crimson glory) had gleefully showed the victims of the strange ammo. Well, what was left.

Every second I bothered to wake up was to three barrels trained to my direction and a massive gaping hole a few meters behind the guards. Schmidt had forced me to be there for the test run. Unlike the guns, this cannon shot beams that swallowed up at least ten captured POWs before the cannon shuddered and blew up. Judging by knitted brows on Red Skull’s expression that was not supposed to happen.

Never the less, one still stood on the opposite side of the new cage. Unlike last time, this one was built with a darker shade of metal and lacked any bolts holding it down. It was less a cage and more of an actual _room_.

Either they thought that a cage wasn’t good enough or that they were running out of space. But in the end, it was a little hard to escape without the off chance that those guns will do more damage than the healing ability can handle.

Slowly the room changes; things appear in the room. The guns change style. Lines of iron bars are drilled into circles, each circle marching down the room. The room expands outwards. More cells are added. People suddenly appear. Some stalk between the cells, some are kept in the cells.

The cells are numbered so many that it is hard to see the threating shadow of the cannon. The prisoners seldom talk, and never try to gain a response from a body drilled onto the wall. It is possibly they took me as HYDRA’s warning to them; I suspect that they have simply run out of room to place them here.

The cells are peculiar; it was open at the top, although the bars stretched beyond any limit a human could climb equipment free – and besides, the POWs weren’t fed so they had no strength to contemplate that idea. Then the next time I take interest there was a second floor over the circular cells, forever boxing them in. The floor wasn’t solid; a grate, see through and surprisingly enough, HYDRA’s cannon fodder seemed to walk on that rather than in-between the cells to taunt the captured men.

The second level wasn’t used for keeping prisoners, rather strange machines that glowed the awful colour the guns shot when fired. Rows and rows of marching technology that had weird pipes sticking out from odd angles, yet all were identical.

The awful blue colour fed the machines; nothing came out but it seemed like they were storing the energy.

Everywhere I looked tickled something in my head. The surroundings were familiar. It felt like everything was coming together, like something had acted behind my back and was finally crawling out of the shadows. Yet nothing I saw stood out. Sometimes something stirs in my stomach when the cells are filled, but nothing happens, and they slowly empty before they’re full again.

Then one day – a new regiment was captured.

It was nothing, another day in the life of a HYDRA guard, but unlike any of the other soldiers they captured, they did not speak French or Dutch; none of them spoke a lick of Polish or Finnish; spit a word of Russian or Spanish; understand a single syllable of Ukraine or Yiddish

But they spoke _English_ (which was rare by itself) but their words were awash with the American accent (which I haven’t heard in _decades_ ).

These Americans were rowdy, unlike any of the Jews they had taken or passive-aggressive like the British soldiers or quietly fuming French soldiers. They shouted obscene words to unfazed guards, rattled their cage’s bars, climbed their way up to the metal grating that was the second floor.

Several times they tried to get my attention but the guards had gestured threating towards my midriff, so I didn’t reply, much to the soldiers’ disappointment. The old man who had been one of the first camping out in the same room as me probably would’ve died of a heart attack if I had.

But with this lively bunch of Americans also came a new scientist called Arnim Zola, who liked to take me out on lovely walks to his room. It would be disgusting if he didn’t like experimenting on me to see if Erskine had left something inside my body. For some “odd _”_ reason, he could never find anything. Maybe because there wasn’t anything there to begin with.  

But nevertheless, Zola thought he was onto something so I gained an experiment buddy. In the first few weeks, Zola was forever buzzing between us and his desk, trying to please Red Skull. As the days went by and he had nothing to show his boss, he frequently left the room and came back, hands shaking and sweat pouring down his neck.

During those times, the other man and I are left alone. Sometimes he’s knocked out. Sometimes I’m knocked out. But every once in a while, we talk.

“Hah, hah, hah,” his heavy breaths push against the iron walls, the sound seemingly growing louder with each breath despite the fact he was slowly catching his breath. His gasps stabilise, and he falls silent. Suddenly, the room his broken by his sobs. “Why _me?_ Why was I chosen? I don’t want to live anymore. I want to _die._ ”

His mantra continues; “I don’t want this. Take me _out_ of here. I’m scared. I want to go back to America. I want to see Steve again. I want to go _home_.” He bursts into tears.

“I want to see _Steve,_ and all I’ve got company is a dead _body_.” At the mention of me, I turn my head, insulted, but he has his eyes screwed shut. I would talk, but Arnim Zola detached my tongue in the last round and it was regenerating at a snail’s pace. I wait until he spots the fact that I have moved before I flip him the bird.

“Gah!” He screams and I roll my eyes. Looking back up to the ceiling. “You’re a zombie!” He seemed to be shocked at my silence. I open my mouth and point to a lump in a jar next to my stomach. His face screwed up and he scooted to one side of the table as much as he could in his binds. I was too weak to stand up and sleep was already beckoning.

Light footsteps approach, but too soft for anyone but I to hear. I place one finger over my lips and return to the same posture he had left me in. He calls “Lady? Hey, lady?” a few more times, until the door bursts open and Arnim Zola picks up a knife and drives it into my leg, panting as he twists it around and around.

“HEY!” my fellow experiment shouts, straining to tear out of his bindings. I peak from beneath my eye lids to see Zola spin around to glower at the barely-a-man, a watery smirk playing across his features.

“ _Why give pity to a dead body? It’s dead, it doesn’t feel anymore_.” He snarls in German, the man still giving shouts at him. It was not hard to guess that neither spoke the same language. Evidently, this angers the small scientist as he picks up another sharp item and slowly draws it down my midriff, splitting open the skin to show my intestines and other gory organs.

The other man’s shouts quieten off in minutes, as Zola takes his frustrations out on a supposedly dead body. To be honest, it wasn’t the worst I had been through, and he was only one man after a decade of ten scientists torturing me at once. My pain reception was towards god-like levels.

After a few hours Zola gestures to a few people off screen and he leaves, the room blackening till nothing was left but the light seeping through a small window.

[x]

The man comes to with a gasp, head whipping to the side as he takes in his location. His breath quietens before tiny sobs break out, names of people I did not know sprouted between cries.

“Hey,” I quietly say, returning my gaze back to the ceiling to give him some sense of privacy. “Couldn’t ask you last time but what’s your name?” He gasps a few times, before a small murmur escapes his lips.

“James,” he says. “But I insist on being called Bucky.”

“My parents said if I was born a boy I would’ve been called James.” I give a weak grin to the roof. “But I’m a girl so they called me Lyall.”

“Wait, wasn’t your tongue cut out?” he calls, gesturing to the rotten muscle still resting in the jar. It had moved to the bench nearby, but it was still in clear view.

“Yep,” I say cheerfully. “If you looked closely to this cut in the next few minutes, can you spot anything?”

He leans as close as he can and I try to bring my right arm out, but my energy is already sapped.

“It’s… healing?” Bucky gasps, owlish eyes returning to mine.

“Yeah. I’m a mutant.” He doesn’t say anything but his face says everything. I try to give a laugh. “It’s not surprising that you’ve never heard of us. Back in World War 1 there was about only two thousand found across the entire world. I’m not sure if more have been found or if they’ve all been killed in the previous war or this one.”

“So you can heal yourself?” His voice is full of awe.

“Yes. If I could, I would show you my other mutation.” I sigh, hearing the light footsteps of our tormentor. I place my finger on my lips again and return to my previous slouch, nearly instantly passing out as the door opens.

[x]

“Wait you’re _Bucky_? And you’re _American?_ ” he doesn’t startle at the sudden question in the previous dead silence. Thank god Zola doesn’t like having guards inside the room.

“Yes I am,” I release one of the biggest breaths that I’ve held since Erskine escaped. “Do you know me?”

“No, not at all.” I wave it off, leaving him shimmering in curiosity.

_Bucky?_ That means – _Captain –_

[x]

I’m awoken by an explosion.

“Fucking _finally_ ,” I sob, so relieved that I let a tear escape. Bucky blinks, still disoriented. He hasn’t moved outside from the experiment room since he was brought inside, and he had been injected something in him – he hadn’t woken up in days, much to the interest of the residential evil researcher.

“Lyall?” he coughs, tired eyes dropping closed.

“I hope to fucking hell that it’s _him_.” Bucky shifts, grunting. Small gasps of pain intervene the tiny prayers that tumble out of my mouth as he shifts in his binds. “I don’t think I could…”

This time, _heavy_ , _fast-paced_ footstep thunder down the hallway outside the room. A flash of blue speeds past one of the doors and next second the door groans and is thrown open with a screech of metal against metal.

“ _Bucky?”_ a rough voice breaks through the grunts of pain.

“Steve? _Steve?_ What are you doing here?” a small voice barely escapes his lips “Don’t tell me I’ve gone mad?”

A man stomps over to Bucky, tearing the tethers to pieces without a sign of strain on his perfectly-created face. “Quick, we’ve got to leave.”

“Whoa, what happened to you?” Bucky gasps as he sits up exercising muscles that haven’t contracted or expanded in months.

“I joined the army,” his voice hinted at a long story. I try to sit up but I can’t draw on any energy. After that outburst before my eyes refused to open a crack. “Are you okay to run?”

“Yeah, but I’ll have to carry Lyall,” the table shudders as he leans heavily against the object holding me up. Tools squeak as he shoves them out of the way, a small grunt escaping my lips as he draws out several items out of my stomach. “Ew. It’s like he didn’t know you were alive. Then again, that’s not hard to believe.”

“Wait, she’s _alive?”_ Steve gasps, taking in the open wounds decorating my stomach and the one freshly severed leg. Arms slither under my stomach, carefully pushing upwards at my shoulder blades.

“Come on Lyall,” he coxes as I try to summon energy to my limbs. “At least hold yourself up until I can piggy back you.” It takes time, although Steve helped with his super-human strength, but finally Bucky and Steve left the room with myself draped against Bucky’s back.

“ _Thank you,”_ I breathe into his ear, tilting my head away to burrow down into his collarbone.

Despite the overwhelming darkness edging my vision, Bucky kept on jumping around and jolting me awake, shouts and explosions breaking through the impending sleep.

Several times I get shot. None of the bullets make it through my body, and I don’t have enough energy to make a single sound of surprise or annoyance. Steve doesn’t seem to understand that I am alive and awake the entire time. Bucky suspects, but I haven’t made a peep since the first explosion.

It takes a few minutes before I realise that they’re going _up._ It takes a few seconds to see that I’m finally above the grating that held the American soldiers in their cells – cells that were blessedly _empty._

Up – up – up. The two take stairs to get out of the place. The few guards left had taken ahold of the main exits because – as Steve had explained while running, not a drop of sweat marring his perfect face – the prisoners he had freed had stolen the element of surprise from Steve so all was left was to run where there were no guards. And, judging by the smell of smoke, the place was also on fire.

However, Steve had scouted the place earlier, and knew of a safety exit that existed above.

That meant stairs.

Steve had this severely beaten metal shield that squealed whenever a bullet rocketed off the surface. I couldn’t see much, but the sound alerted everyone in the burning building to our general direction. Thankfully Steve wasn’t the one to sought out fights so most of it was Bucky running upstairs and Steve defending his friend with his shield.

“Steve,” Bucky breathes, suddenly stopping, heaving in huge gasps of air. “Who is that?” Steve’s sure footsteps stumble to an abrupt stop, and I struggle to open my eyes. I rasp the man’s name, not loud enough for anyone but Bucky to hear. He turns his head, opening his mouth to ask me something, but the man cuts him off.

“Hello, Captain America,” says a slick, German accent. “So glad we could meet. Having fun on those stages?” Red Skull smirks, and his eyes flicker to Bucky.

“I see you’ve found Zola’s experiment.” He doesn’t tell _who_ was the experiment so both Steve and Bucky assumed that he was talking about the dead body hanging off Bucky’s back – even though I was experimented on, Bucky was too. “But I don’t care, you can have it back. That is, if you get out of here.”

The energy to focus on the conversation was slipping. Their voices faded away, my eye sight wavering, everything blurring into dull grey blacks, a small flame of bright red flickering before it snuffled out.

“Whoa whoa whoa, Lyall,” Bucky mutters, voice too close and loud to ignore. “Don’t die here. We’re almost out.”

“I need energy…”

“Energy?” Bucky was momentarily confused, but Steve called him back. Words floated by and Bucky was running and a jarring sensation that shocked the fragile wound patch up on my stomach and opened it again.

“Ow,” I say as loud as I can, and finally pass out.

[x]

“Lyall _is_ alive,” Bucky’s voice snaps. “So piss off and leave me and Steve alone.”

“… Steve and I, Bucky.” Says Steve, pulling a huge breath into his perfect chest. “I am willing to take a body back to camp, but are you sure that she’s alive?”

“I saw her intestines being ripped out, tongue cut off and her leg severed. You saw that she had intestines, she _spoke_ to me several times and you can see that her leg has heal and is even _growing back!”_

A heavy air hangs over the area – a tent? Shelter made out of wood? A hollow tree? It’s hard to tell when my eyes refuse to open. Bucky shifts and rests a hand on my chest. I take in as much as I can, which would be barely enough to sustain Steve in all his super soldier form.

“Yeah, she is.” The relief in his voice is easy to detect. “She just –”

“ _Breathed.”_ Steve nearly launches to rest his hand beside Bucky’s. I try again, using the energy that had been stored. His hand vibrated, and I really, really, _really_ wanted to open my eyes but I _couldn’t_. It was too exhausting, a feeling that I was too scared of to knowledge. 

Why – am I so tired? Why can’t I sit up and look around? Why is it taking _so_ _long_ for my body to heal? Why can’t I give them a sign of _yes, I am alive?_ I’m – I’m _scared_. What if I’m forever stuck like this? What is Zola stunted my growth? What if I can’t stay with Victor?

What if I grow old?

I don’t want that _I DON’T WANT THAT I WANT TO SEE VICTOR I WANT TO SEE NICK WHY WON’T MY BODY **HEAL?**_

My hands tighten momentarily, and a small flame grows inside me. Suddenly a reserve of energy that I didn’t know existed before opened up, pouring out, filling my body to the brim. My stomach tingled, my leg aching from the sudden growth it is experiencing.

Bucky talks to me calmly as Steve sits back in shock, but I ignore every word, focusing the influx of energy towards my injuries and healing them. I discover wounds in places that I hadn’t noticed, like a strange blow to my head, my uterus torn out, and an odd three organs missing.

First was the blow to my head – which I discovered cleared up my thoughts exceptionally – and then the mess that was my stomach. Once that was smooth as a new born baby, the remaining energy was continuously sent towards my leg.

Regenerating limbs took time. Much like when Deadpool cut off his head and a baby version grew back, mine took hours to return to its usual state. However, it didn’t grow a baby version of the leg – rather it built it back, square inch by square inch of skin, bone, muscle from the thighs, then knee then ankle and then foot.

There was no more discussion of my wellbeing since then, but the feeling that creeped in was the same whenever or wherever I display my ability – _who is she? Is she even human?_

_Stay away. We don’t want you here._

I didn’t bother trying to sit up or open my eyes. It wouldn’t do the company any good. They clearly didn’t want me. I wasn’t going to bother.

[x]

Although there was tanks for injured men, Bucky didn’t trust the rest of the men to take care of me – a “dead” body – so continuously I hung off the back of the soldier. Steve sometimes took the job, although Bucky _seemed_ to be more physically fit than any man would be being experimented on.

Well, Zola _had_ experimented on Bucky…

Steve seemed to know where he was leading the pack; as the days went past more and more soldiers from Europe and the local area recognised the major landmarks. Sometimes we trudged past small villagers, but Steve didn’t stop, saying that an army camp was close enough for everyone to rest.

There were no army on the road, until I realised that Steve was leading us around any signs of approaching traffic, which was a demonstration to his perfect healing.

It took a few weeks – shockingly nobody died from exhaustion or starvation. Steve knew exactly how to ration food and water, knew when to take stops while maximizing the distance they covered every day.

None of the soldiers seemed to realise that Steve wasn’t the highest ranking officer, people scoring from major to colonel. I had lost my General badge somewhere on the Western Front in World War 1, so nobody had any idea.

Then after nearly a week – only told by snores of Bucky when he sleeps at night – Steve announces that they would be back at the nearest American camp within the next day or two. He seemed a little antsy, shifting whenever he sat – and that was very rarely – tapping his fingers against his arms and even creating a little beat on his metal shield that nearly drives Bucky nuts.

“Stop it,” Bucky groans, gently tugging Steve’s shield to the floor. “Why are you so worried?”

“…Colonel Phillips is going to kill me.” He grumps, sitting down next to Bucky, scowling at the smoldering fire coals. His thick hunk of a body obstructs the direct path between the fire and I, stealing the source of heat, as faint as it was this far from it. “I left without his command – in fact, against it.”

“If they penalty you, I’ll drag you out of that camp and we can live our life as hermits in the European wild.” Bucky snarks, his utensil clacking against whatever metal container he has in his hand. He pauses then –

“I wouldn’t think they’d punish you.” He murmurs, and he shifts, the gravel under his boots grinding against each other. “It’s cold; you’re an oven. Keep me warm, _Captain America._ ”

He says Steve’s stage title like it was a small inside joke they shared between them. Steve laughs, and gravel is moved again. Bucky’s breath is the first to even out and Steve’s isn’t far behind.


	16. 十六

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at the camp, Lyall discovers what is wrong with herself with some help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was having a writer's block on writing this chapter for this month only to realise that I already had written a chapter. In a sorry for posting 11 days late, the next month I will try to aim for two chapters. :)

# Chapter Sixteen

“Just over this hill, soldiers!” Steve barks, a small smile, although already waning, gracing his perfect face. The men roared, a light spring to their steps, tanks revving. The party had been going for over a week, yet none of the tanks needed to be discarded; the blue stuff that was powering them was extremely powerful.

We marched past a line of gaping men, uniform fresh and guns strikingly new. They scattered as Steve passed them, leaving room for a hundred men to pass. One races forward, yelling and screaming. A barrier of chicken wire rises from the ground, parting before the runner reaches it.

Clamorous voices shouted and screamed, an unleashed laughter joins the party. Men that I’ve never seen before swarm the scene, patting a blushing Steve on the back and even a woman with striking red lipstick weaves through the crowd to talk a few moments with Steve.

Bucky doesn’t care that he’s got a dead body on his back, he still shouts to the sky above and joins in on the dancing. An older man who looks like a whole weight was taken off his back stalks towards Steve, and with a few words, Steve is grinning, towards the women and towards Bucky. I flicker my eyes up to meet his for the first time, and he takes a step back, startled. Weakly, I form my hand into a thumbs up, and drop it again, the small sound of my hand hitting Bucky’s stomach lost in the noise surrounding.

“Hey,” Bucky quietly says, a tiny bead of happiness still intertwined in his voice. It breaks, and he tries again. “Let’s get you to a real bed. I’m sure that this place has some kind of person that can look after you.”

He steps out of the wriggling mass that is the welcome home party, and Steve appears out between two men, guiding Bucky to a white tent with a faded red cross painted on the side. The beds aren’t even close to full, but some men are already quietly trooping inside. And despite their discomfort of their injuries, their faces are split with the biggest smiles I had ever seen.

They were safe, and they knew that.

A nurse walked over, aware of a new patient, but her face showed that she was a little confused. Women weren’t common on military grounds, and I was obviously new, so why was I here, in this camp? Bucky tries to sit me down softly, but ends up nearly dumping on the bed, collapsing onto the bed.

When the nurse sees the lack of a leg, she immediately takes over, dipping a cloth into a nearby water container, cleaning off the dried blood. The gentle care and the softest bed I had been in since years ago made me smile, slowly slipping into sleep. But before I could finally rest, I motion for someone to come closer, and whisper _“Stark. Get me a Stark”_ into their ear.

[x]

“I still don’t realise why you need me here.” A grumpy voice snaps from beside the bed, a chair groaning from the constant shifting.

“I don’t know why either. Steve said that she said _Stark_ and you’re the only Stark he knows.” Bucky snaps back. Amused, I plan to pretend to be asleep for a little while longer.

“Any idea why? Do you know her?” Bucky snorts at the questions.

“Nope. I met her in the experiment room; before that she was nailed to a wall with iron poles.” A sound – half disgust, half curiosity, however that could be created – echoes from the other side of which Bucky stands. He pauses and I get the feeling he’s looking down at me. “…she said that she needed energy, the last time she spoke.”

“Energy? Why would she…” the other man cuts off, and an uneasy silence descends. It was evidently time to wake up, which meant all I did was open my eyes.

Even though dirt cakes the creases between my eye lid and my cheek, and sleep gathers at the corner, my eyes flicker open, momentarily stinging as harmful substances easily touch my eyes. Beside me a man with a dashing moustache slouches in the rickety chair as if it was a throne, eyes glued to the stump that was my leg.

He slowly draws his eyes up my body, a frown growing deeper by the second and his eyes stopping at my unscarred stomach, before landing on my eyes. He blinks, and leans forward.

“Holy – you’re awake.” He breathes, his attention now completely focused on me. I blink in reply, spending some energy to give him a greeting smile. “So, why did you call me?”

“You’re smart, are you not?” I write on the sheets with the hand that is on his side, not another muscle moving an inch. “Can you figure out my puzzle?”

“Of course I can!” the man even sits up in reply, glaring at my fingers like I offended them. Smirking, I close my eyes, completely focusing on my fingers. “I can figure out your puzzle easy!”

“A human who can go years without sleeping, food, drinking, or anything of the 5 basic needs, suddenly finds himself exhausted. Why?”

“What kind of riddle is that?!” the man scoffs, but nevertheless returns to his poorly made chair. He hums, lightly scratching his skin with perfectly-manicured nails. “Does he feel any repercussions from forgoing any of those activities?”

“No. Nothing. It doesn’t slow him down one bit. He suddenly finds himself exhausted, and in a few years he finds himself unable to move without great effort.”

The man sits back, one foot tapping the floor in rhythm. Bucky finally stands up and leaves, not interested in two basically dead bodies stare off into the distance.

“…He’s lacking energy,” the Stark finally answers. “I wouldn’t expect you to know this but –”

“Basic energy comes from everyday sources such as food, water and sleep.”

“Yes!” he smiles, but abruptly is serious again. “Is there any reason why you called me out here other than to give me a nonsense riddle? I probably wouldn’t have come out here if Steve wasn’t here.”

“Yeah. Could you please fetch me food I am able to eat? My doctor said I need energy.”

It doesn’t even take a second for Stark to get it. He stands up, splutters, and storms off, muttering angrily under his breath – something about confusing dumb people can be.

Although it doesn’t look like it, with my face showing nothing nearly the whole time I had been awake, I felt relieved. Happy. Elastic.

All I needed was to eat – and I would’ve eaten _something_ even if I hadn’t called up a Stark or he has disregarded the idea of coming to the call of a women he did not know. It was no wonder why I was constantly falling asleep in HYDRA’s hands.

Repairing cells took energy, and although I had a wonderful history of eating since my birth, the years of being in HYDRA’s custody had finally taken its toll around the time Erskine and I planned the escape. Then in the next few months? Years? Zola performing constant examinations on my body, taking more energy than it could use all that it had stored.

The man who was the local Stark returned then, a cook and a nurse following his step. He was talking non-stop, complaining about a rude patient that hadn’t eaten in years and may need extensive care.

“Hey you, when was the last time you ate?”

“Two days ago.” The man opens his mouth to relay this to the two bewildered people at the foot of my bed.

“When was the last time you ate a full meal.”

“… about 25 years ago.” A strangled sound came from the man’s throat, a mix between horror and outrage.

“You’re telling a lie. Nobody can live that long without food!” the man snarls and storms out of the infirmary tent, leaving the two other people behind. They stand there in silence, until the man returns.

“Just get her a big feast. I don’t care how you do it, just give her enough fit for five, no, _ten_ people.”

[x]

The first spoonful of food was soup with all sorts of mushed up vegetables and fruit, carefully slipped between my lips by the nurse. The Stark had hung around while the soup finally hits my stomach, around 8 hours after the first meal.

He later complained that he could literally see the life blooming in my body – a cold, pale, lifeless corpse that transformed into a twitching, blinking human being that could even open its mouth and hold up its own arm. He commented that it was like watching a zombie come back to life. Creepy, and he did _not_ want to see it again.

With every meal I ate, growing from soups to little slices of soft fruit to fully blown apples and capsicums to a whole meal, I could feel my limbs growing lighter. With every meal, there was less time between them and the nurse stopped helping around the time I could bite into an apple without any harm.

Soon it was just me eating constantly, without a breath to spare for talking. My foot had grown back overnight, my first thought that morning of _oh wow, finally not a cripple._

Stark had fallen silent when he saw my foot, wiggling, fully-formed, sat on the end where only a stump had been the day before.

Colonel Phillips had finally come in when I was eating for the sake of eating, rather than to gain back energy.

“Madam,” he says in a moment when I’m reaching for my next meal. I look up at him and put it down politely. “May I ask who you are?”

“Lyall Howlett,” I reply, able to use my voice for the first time since we had escaped the hideout. “You may know me by a lot of names – but a fellow like you might know me for my military heroics. _Any_ Stark should bloody well know me.”

Colonel Phillips doesn’t recognise the name, although the Stark blinks in shock.

“No _way_.” He stands, one finger pointing at me. “Lyall Howlett is a fairy-tale my father told to me as a child. No human could live since the American _Civil War._ ”

“Well I’m fucking right here.” I smirk, before turning back to the Colonel. “Sir, I would like it if you could track down my family. My half-brother is called Victor Creed and my adoptive son is called Nick. They should be neck deep in the war fields somewhere in the world.”

Colonel Phillips nods, all business, ready to complete my request.

“Oh, and, any relationship with John Phillips?” he startles at the name. “Got Sergeant in World War One, right?”

“My father, I am guessing.” He clips, feigning faint interest.

“He was a fucking dick,” I say and his face softens slightly. “Didn’t even know the nozzle of a gun from the barrel. Utterly useless, although his humour was little charming if he wasn’t insulting women and dark-skinned people all the time.”

“I’ll find what I can about your family, Howlett.” He leaves.

“Make sure you throw my name around a lot! That’ll get them running!” I shout after him, happily returning to my meal. “Hey, Stark, what’s your name?”

“…Howard.” He grumps and I nod. Makes sense – there’s only one Stark Steve knows and its Tony’s dad.

“Say, did your father ever have a picture of you as a baby and a woman who had weird hair?” Judging by the unsettled face Howard wore, I had hit the jackpot. “I don’t quite look the same, because the lack of hospitably HYDRA has is stunning… your father wanted to take that picture before I left and got captured by HYDRA.”

“Oh,” Howard blinks, still staring at the ground, before silently leaving the tent. Soon, Bucky comes flying in (with Steve in tow) just as I start the fiftieth plate since that morning.

“Lyall! I can’t believe you’re up and about!” Bucky sits exactly in the same spot Howard was before. “So, tell me, why can you heal yourself so fast now, comparing to before.”

“Well,” Steve visibly shocks when he hears my voice, although nobody but I notice it. “I haven’t eaten a good meal since I was taken by HYDRA, so you know, back in 1918 or 17. But I had been living for about 80 years before _that_ , so I had a lot of energy stored up. Then around the time I met Erskine I noticed that, hey, I was really tired, ya know?” Bucky seemed to be hanging off every word, while Steve wasn’t even hiding the fact that he didn’t believe one.

“So anyway, after Erskine broke out, Zola began to do those nasty _experiments_ where he basically cut off a _really_ important organ and watched it grow back. And it’s not common knowledge, but healing takes up a lot of energy, and at that time I was already exhausted all the time. Anyway, Steve broke us out, and at that time I had no energy to speak, let alone _move_ , so yeah, I can see why a lot of people thought I was a dead body. When we got here, I called up a Stark – because I go _way_ back with that family – and Howard figured out my problem. I just needed to eat.” I finish with a flourish towards the banquet laid out on the bed between my legs.

“Wow,” Bucky says as he leans forward to snag a leg of chicken off a plate. “Is the army paying for this?”

“Yeah, with my army income, probably.”

“You’re in the army?” Steve finally speaks up, gingerly taking a single grape from Bucky’s encouraging hands.

“It depends on which army you’re talking about. In the American army before I left I was a Major, and in the Australian army I easily reached Major General, and in the British army I was awarded Deputy-General.” I say and the two at the end of the bed reel back in shock.

“Liarrrr!” Bucky shouts, and draws the attention of nearly everyone in the tent, if they weren’t already interested in the massive amount of food that is clustered around my bed. “You wouldn’t hold your ranking if you disappeared or joined another country!”

“Hey, I have the approval of Queen Victoria to be in the American and British army at the same time – and as far as the Australian government is concerned I’m still MIA on the Western Front in 1917. Well, that means that we technically don’t outrank each other if we’re enrolled in different countries.”

Colonel Phillips returns during an arguing match between Bucky and I over my ranking, Steve quietly supporting Bucky and slowly stealing more food from my plates until I shove one into his hands. He informs me that some people are working on finding my family and they are to be contacted as soon as possible. Another women enters as he exits, the pretty lady with the thick coating of crimson lipstick.

Steve jumps up to meet her, awkwardly realizing he still has his tenth plate clutched in his hands. They chat, a little too quietly for Bucky to hear, but I calmly repeat every word for word to the curious male.

“The government wants to award to a badge for your bravery,” she says in greeting, and Steve puts on a pained expression. “They would be really grateful if you turned up to this one.”

“But I really didn’t do anything-” here the lady, Bucky and I scoff at the same time “- and honestly they’re more interested in looking like they’re doing something. I don’t want to go back to America; I want to stay here in Europe and help people.”

“ _Steve_ ,” the lady says his name with a touch of disproval. Steve rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

“ _Peggy,_ ” He replies, copying her tone to nearly a scary degree. Huh, so this was Peggy. Her facial structure was a little different than the actor, but that was basically the same with every single familiar character – no, _person_ – I had met.

“Anyway, the boys are going on a night out in town, and they’re wondering if you’d like to join them, including Bucky and the other lady.” She smiles, and turns to leave, Steve spluttering out a reply that was too late.

As soon as he sits down, he notices that we’re wearing shit-eating grins (although with the way everyone spoke today nobody would phrase it like that) and hides his face in his hands.

“Ooooh, Steveie’s got a _crush,_ ” Bucky laughs, heavily thumping his friend on the back. “Anyway, do you still want that plate?”

[x]

Despite the fact that my body was back to its everyday state it had been to before the first world war, nurses still forced me to stay in the tent overnight, meaning I missed out on the night out and the forming of the Howling Commandos.

Steve found me exercising next to one of the trees that lined the edges of the camp the next morning and just stood there watching. He seemed to searching to what to say, but all he did was watch as I pumped out push-up after push-up.

“You afraid of me?” I finally say, standing up to face him. “I don’t mind if you say yes. I’ve lived through decades of that type of hate, whether it’s because of my mutation or my gender.”

“I…” Steve pauses. “How can you live for over 80 years?” He finally asks, idly fiddling with his strange formal suit. He was probably going to meet Stark after this and kiss that gossip girl.

“I’m a mutant.” Steve just looks at me, and if I could, I would’ve laughed. “We’re a very small portion of humanity. Some can fly, others can create fire. I’m one of the first. There’s even a smaller group in the world population of mutants who are immortal – and probably will live forever. My healing ability allows me to live in my middle 20s forever. I know a man who’s just bones, and it doesn’t look like he’s dropping dead anytime soon.”

Steve seems generally interested; he leans forward a little, face lighting up as he learns.

“…Bucky said you said you had another ability.” He squirms in his shoes, discomfort of asking such an invading question doing his polite personality in.

“I do have another,” I flex my hands, a small smile gracing my face. “It’s been years since I’ve be able to do this – didn’t want HYDRA to discover them after all – so I might not be able to control the speed.”

I’m not sure what Steve is expecting me to do. Conjure a dancing skeleton? Spit fireball? Transmute the ground? Slowly my claws extrude, slowly enough that it takes Steve a few seconds to realise that bones are not supposed to be extruding from my fist.

“Whoa,” he steps forward, calmly taking my fist into his hands. They slide back in, jump back out and in again. My other hand joins in, and the muscle memory jumps back, allowing me to draw them out one at a time. “That’s… really…”

“Weird? Strange? Creepy?”

The adjectives seem to shock Steve into reality, and he drops my hands, and looks me in the eyes.

“Howard said he wanted you to come with me when I visited him today,” is all he says before he stalks off. I follow him, inwardly amused, but I don’t bother letting it show on my face. “Colonel Phillips says that Victor has been discovered, although your son’s whereabouts is still unknown.”

“He’s probably with Gerrant or the royal family.” This doesn’t seem to be the correct answer for Steve, because he freezes up and refuses to talk until we reach Howard’s building.

When told to wait while Howard was finishing up on his most recent experiment, the gossip girl makes her appearance. She seemed to be a little off put by my existence, although it doesn’t deter her on her mission to kiss Captain America.

Peggy comes and goes, barely sparing a glance at my sulette slouched against the wall, leaving in a fuming mess. Stark appears, calling Steve over, not acknowledging my existence.

Steve finds his vibramium shield and Howard has it taken away for it to be painted up once Peggy is done shooting Steve. I must say, his reflexes are good and it would be good to fight against him.

Once the two love birds leave, Howard finally stops in front of me.

“… With your hair up like that, it is easier to tell that you _are_ the woman the picture.” He finally says, referring to the petite victory rolls one of the nurses had done with my freshly cleaned hair. In the 1910s I hadn’t styled my hair in any shape or form, but my hair had taken to forming these little lumps at the top of my head, much like the strange ear-shaped hair style Logan had. The nurse put it up like this to hide those strange deformed lumps and I was quite liking it already.

I told Howard so, and lightly pat the iron-hard rolls. He rolls his eyes.

“So – you’re _the_ Lyall?” his eyes seem to be staring at nothing in particular. It _would_ be weird to have a fairy-tale suddenly appear in your life. In answer I silently draw out my claws. Howard draws in a shuddering breath and abruptly stalks away, leaving me alone in the cold room.

[x]

Within a few hours returning to the camp, the rest of the Howling Commandos appear, demanding to see the strange bones hiding in my forearms. They express a perfect mix of awe, curiosity, and shock. One of them starts speaking in French, and nearly everyone there is surprised to find that I can understand it.

Then it dissolves into a contest to see if they could find a language that I wouldn’t know _one_ word it. Luckily, all the languages they knew was in Europe and HYDRA had taken to capturing soldiers from nearly every country.

Steve and Bucky silently appear, Bucky cheerfully joining in on the loud conversation. Howard slinks around the outskirts until Steve remembers that he would be smart enough to know a few languages.

I want to tell them that I had travelled across the entire world, visiting places that over people haven’t been in.

Then Colonel Phillips interrupts with –

“Your brother is on his way with your son.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Steve said “That’s… really…” at Lyall’s claws I first wrote ‘awesome’ and ‘cool’ until I realised that 1940s!Steve wouldn’t say that. The struggle is real.


	17. 十七

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mutant community makes its return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanna ask me questions privately? My tumblr is theninjafromyesterday. I probably won't answer if it's anon, sorry.

# Chapter Seventeen

Would it had not been for LYALL, then I would’ve been able to join the Howling Commandos.

LYALL, despite many sacrifices of countless mutants, had slowly started falling into corruption and under-the-table trading, selling secrets of other mutants and trading their locations. Currently, there was only one or two mutants selling out their own skin, but I had hope that staying around for a few years would be able to root out the ones who were about to turn to that kind of marketing.

Bucky had invited me to the Howling Commandos just I had received this information, telling me that all the other blokes wouldn’t mind if I did.

“And,” he continues, face lighting up “Your skill in languages would be a massive help. You’d be able to beat HYDRA to the ground for what they’ve done to you,” he grins.

The words _Sorry, I’m already occupied,_ sat at the tip of my tongue but I paused, looking away from Bucky to the group of men over at the firing range, practicing their shooting abilities.

Despite the strict soldier managing the lesson, the five men laughed and talked among themselves, asking Jacques questions through another man – his name was Gabriel, I think. Steve was in the heart of the group (his target riddled with pinpoint head and heart shots) putting his two cents forward in every single conversation that was occurring. Regardless of the fact that participating in three conversations would take everyone’s concentration, Steve still sent worried looks towards Bucky and I.

Victor and Nick fooled around with the guns on the other end, other mutants joining in, cheating with their powers. I could see glances from all parties – the mutants, the Howling Commandos, passing soldiers and wondering nurses alike – to and fro.

Instead, what came tumbling out was “Hmm, we’ll see.” Bucky did seem slightly disappointed in the answer, punching lightly on my arm.

“Come on, you’ll make history with us!” he brags, crooked grin stretching across his face.

“I’ve already made history Bucky,” he did seem a little shocked at that fact, but I didn’t go down that path “I’m not sure if the others are ready to accept a mutant.”

“Well,” Bucky seemed to get where I was coming from, eye brows furrowing. “I could tell them that you’re interested in joining and see how they react.”

He fidgets, not running off to meet with his mates and Steve quite yet.

“How…. What kind of shit do you get for being a mutant?” he murmurs, coughing after as if he wanted to believe that he didn’t say that.

“Well, there’s the extreme kind of stuff. I’ve had a shotgun held to my head by the same person I save from being killed. There was one time a would-be victim of rape threw dirt in my eyes as she ran away screaming. Uh, Jack the Ripper, remember him, the guy in London right, well I caught him and he was a mutant but he didn’t realise it. When I told him he was, he committed suicide because he didn’t want to be the “disgusting trash” that he used to hunt.”

“Whoa – _Jack the Ripper?_ ”

“Yeah. Turns out all his victims were mutants. While I don’t support suicide, I would’ve killed him myself.”

“Shit man,” Bucky breathes, and I see something harden in his eyes. “Why does everyone hate mutants? Aren’t they the same as us, just a little different, like how Gabriel has black skin and we have white?”

“Mate,” I huff, crossing my arms. “I wish everyone saw it that way.”

Bucky stands beside me, waits for his heavy breathing to calm before sliding down to his group, while I strolled towards Victor and Nick.

“Hey,” I say, watching as a woman’s arm spreads before she hooks a bone offered by another woman to her make-shift bow. She lets it loose, skin snapping back to place. The arrow plunges into the target, ripping through it. The women who offered the bone wriggles her limp arm and the arrow comes flying back, smoothly entering her arm again without a scar. “Whoa, that was _lit._ ”

The group turn to eye the new comer, taking in my victory rolls and heavy army clothes. Grinning, I wave, introducing myself. Several people return back to their task of showing off, while others try to validate my claim, and others send their thanks my way.

Gerrant walks over, illusion still in place, his helper trailing behind him like a lost puppy. His old illusionists had developed a line dedicated to helping him hide his bones. The new one was lacking in the expressions department but made up for it in the finer details, such as smell and hiding the groaning of his bones.

“So, about LYALL,” he starts, his imaginary jaw lagging just a touch too much, before correcting itself.

“Oh yes, I’ve been invited to the Howling Commados. I wasn’t gonna join of course,” I sigh when Nick frowns at the words “but I want to use this invitation to see if they’re okay with my existence. I know Bucky is, but Steve acts uncomfortable in my presence.”

Gerrant nods, resting his skull on his hands, the dry bones grinding together before the sound was cut off by the illusionist. “It would be best to see if _Captain America_ supports the existence of mutants.”

Those included in the conversation and those who were listening in all turn to face the local legend at once, his group of soldiers all facing Bucky with his news. They didn’t seem to show any hostility at the prospect of me joining, although Steve had carefully arranged his face to be blank.

No, it would not do good if Captain America was racist.

* * *

“Hey Lyall,” Bucky waves, taking a moment to greet Nick sitting on my shoulders before returning eye contact with me. “The guys didn’t seem repulsed by the idea of hiking around Europe with you. They said that your warmth would be best for the cold winters, hahaha,”

I nod, letting Nick fool around with my hands as he plays an imaginary game on top of my head.

“Mum, take out your claws,” he instructs, tapping my right hand. Slowly they extract, and Nick returns to playing with my hair and my claws.

“I wasn’t expecting anything less,” I tell Bucky, gathering myself to tell him our suspicions about Steve. “Its – ah – ya know, _Steve…_ ”

“Steve?” Bucky asks, narrowing his eyes, “what about him?” his cheerful aura hardens, turning thick and dangerous.

“He’s being acting weird around me,” I admit, “and the other mutants say that he doesn’t like for who I am,” Bucky frowns and the dangerous air loosens, turning thoughtful. Slowly I let my left hand relax, the claws retracting. Belatedly, I realise that Nick asked for my claws to be out because he knew this conversation could turn ugly. I reach up to pat his head in a silent thanks.

“I’ll go and ask him,” Bucky murmurs and he turns to leave.

“I’m sorry for doubting Steve,” I call after his retreating back.

“Well I just fucked up,” I huff, following Bucky from a distance to return to the camp. “Think we should leave?”

Nick paused in playing around with my hands, and sighed.

“I think so” he admits “Bucky wouldn’t like anyone who doubts his friend.”

“Well then,” I pause outside our tent, peaking in to catch Victor’s attention. “Shall we follow the yellow brick road?”

“Okay,” he says, no questions asked, moving to roll up the sleeping bag.

* * *

 

In the years gone, LYALL had built an underground community a few hours from London, and several places all across the world. Despite many mutant’s attempt, it was cramped, dirty and disgusting. Although there were several doctor mutants, illnesses still ran amok the mutant population.

This is the first thing I wanted to tackle, right along with the vermin that sold out other mutants. The problem – by the council of Mutant City (that really, really, _really_ needs a new name) point of view – was that there wasn’t any place in the world that could gather mutants _across the world_ into this one certain point.

But I had an idea. A very grand idea, but an idea. And a back-up one.

* * *

 

Gerrant had been active in the mutant community, so much that everyone knew who the living skeleton was. Victor had appeared enough that a portion of the mutants knew who exactly he was, and a larger portion knew that he was still alive. Nick was still unknown.

Me? Nobody knew anything about me except Gerrant, Victor and Nick.

The so-called “mutant history” of LYALL painted me up to be a saint sent from God (despite me being atheist) and then ended my epic tales of saving mutants and killing anti-mutants by disappearing into the sunset, returning to god. Gerrant didn’t care about the rumors (downside of being Immoral – either you lose your care factor of smaller things or you lose your effort to do anything. Unfortunately, Gerrant lost his care factor) and Victor thought they were too funny to do anything.

The council – which was where one of the vermin was hiding in – were more of an over lording group that word was high all and end all. This is exactly why corruption was already amok only a decade after its forming. This “council” would simply just have to go.

Currently they were seated in a very comfy room overlooking the kingdom they owned. The contrast the room and the rundown buildings was _very_ clear.

“Hello Gerrant,” the main leader – the _vermin_ – greets, eyes flickering to his partners. “What brings you here today without notice?”

“I’ve brought my old friends along,” he waves at the illusionist who lets the illusion fade, leaving a grinning skull. “You might recognise their names.”

“I’m Nick and he’s Victor,” Nick grins, sensing the blood in the water.

“And I’m Lyall,” I wave, stepping forward to hold out my hand. He recoils, blinking in shock, the feeling echoed by his coworkers. “A little bird told me about your under-the-table dealings. Care to explain?”

“I – uh – you can’t be Lyall!” he stammers, tripping over himself to get away.

“I wouldn’t think that Gerrant would bring anyone less than the real Lyall,” I snap, grabbing his shirt coller and wrenching him closer. “You’ve been selling out other mutants, haven’t you? Oh yeah, I know. In fact, everyone will know soon enough. Your death will be enough.”

“But – but – you’re _Lyall,_ you wouldn’t kill another mutant!” he screams, trying to push me away.

“I have lived through at least _ten_ wars, killed humans _and_ mutants alike. Its no skin off my nose if you die right here by my hand.” He quivers, watching as I raise my left hand and slowly let the claws extract. His long tongue shoots out – his mutation – wrapping around the claws as I drive them towards his heart. I laugh.

“Even your mutation says you have a loose tongue,” releasing his shirt, I stab the tongue with my right hand, the tongue loosening around my left as he screams. I spear him in the heart and force my hand down, slicing over his rib cage before sinking into his stomach and other organs.

His struggles quieten immediately.

Silence in the room. Victor, Nick and Gerrant are already conversing among themselves, ignoring the bloody mess at my feet. The other nine members of the council shudder in their seats.

“Is anybody else wanting to go toe to toe with me?” I sharply demand, casting an armour piecing glare to each man.

They shook their heads and sank back into their too-comfy seats.

“Fantastic. I have a few ideas for LYALL and the rest of the mutant cities.”

* * *

 

“Hello motherfuckers,” I say, lounging in the recently vacated seat, one hand holding up my head and legs crossed. Before me were all the vermin that sold out their own kind, all cuffed uniquely to combat their mutations. A few metres behind the row of prisoners were the reporters from the local newspaper (named after me, yet again). “You may be wondering who I am, and why you’re here.”

Gerrant stands proudly beside the chair, Victor and Nick slouched in the seats closest to me. The room that I recently killed someone had been moved from the high building to the largest plaza in the city. All regular humans had been barred from entering the city for today, so only mutants were here to witness my comeback. In the other hand not holding up my head, I held a microphone, connected to speakers all around the raised platform.

The reporters had the front row while the everyday mutants crowded as close as they could get.

“Well, I would just like to say, I was not taken by god in the end.” It takes a few moments for several people to get what I was saying, whispers sweeping through the crowd. “Yes, I am Lyall. No, I am not a saint. No, I wasn’t sent by god. I am an everyday mutant just like everyone else here.”

“Now, these vermin before me have done something I do _not_ condone. They killed their own kind, sold other mutants to humans and run underground trades that _did not_ go under my radar.” I stop in front of one man who doesn’t even dare to raise his head to look at my shoes.

“This man sold over twenty people to the humans. So far, ten have died.” I walk right.

“This man killed nearly a hundred mutants, not only in this city, but also undiscovered mutants.”

“This man sold mutants to whore houses, pimps and drug lords. Out of the three hundred under his care, more than half have either died or are wasting away.”

And so it went on. The plaza fell silent with the first man’s crimes, the air growing tense as I went on. Finally, I came to the last man.

“This man did not necessary kill anyone, but he has shown corruption to who comes into this city to telling people they are not allowed to practice their mutations anywhere. I won’t kill you, but you will be put into situations your actions forced other people into.”

I pause and return to my seat.

“I won’t kill them right here, as there are children present, but don’t expect to see their faces in the future. If you have any concerns over their crimes, I am sure my son Nick would be happy to show you why I find them guilty.” I wave a light hand towards Nick.

Victor stands to take the mutants off the platform.

“On to lighter topics.” I say, walking forward to sit on the edge of the platform, closer to the reporters. “In my return to this city, I have realised a few things.”

“One, you guys need to get over the fact that I was a saint, angel whatever. I don’t believe in any god, so please don’t put me with him.”

“Two, there is still racism, sexism and homophobia rampant in this city. I thought you knew better.”

“Three, this place is too small for the population _currently_ , and the world population is only going to grow. Therefore, I have a plan to move this city and every other mutant city to a new location.” The crowd murmurs, and the reporters start to talk over themselves.

“Please, put your hands up and I will point to you.” They quieten, and all look towards each other. Finally, a man slowly raises his hand.

“The council already tried that path, Madam,” he calls, and I nod, repeating the question over the mic.

“That is true, but you didn’t know that the council _did_ find an area suitable however it was too far for their backhand dealings to continue. That’s why they denied the chance to move.”

A smaller woman, whom had been shoved up the back, waved her arm like a madman.

“Yes?” I ask, making I contact with her. She seemed a little taken back when I called on her.

“I was wondering,” she started, a little flush rising on her cheeks, “how do you plan to move all of us without the human’s knowledge? And where exactly is this place?” Surprisingly, her voice carries through the microphone despite the distance. Shrugging, I continue without repeating her question.

“Well, I’m sure there are some people who own boats and if not, I can just buy one. And the island is undiscovered by mankind so far, and the council only found it because of mutant abilities. This island is about the size of the London area. It’s off the coast of Australia; no I’m not talking about New Zealand.”

The crowd murmurs.

“I need mutants who can build houses and mutants who have access or own transportation. That goes from cars to trains to boats to planes. I need _you_ to make this happen.”

“Any more questions? Then please, if you think you can help the mutant community, meet me and my crew at that building at 8 AM tomorrow.”

* * *

 

Sometimes, I am really thankful about the fact that I don’t need to sleep to function. In the past few days I had not slept one wink, and none were the wiser.

The island was off the coast of Western Australia, far enough from the coast that nobody would come across it, apart from a few lost boats.

Not many had bought their own boat with them when they moved to the mutant city, so I had to purge on the biggest boat using the Howlett fortune. To my surprise, it barely made a dent; my father must’ve had a lot of money stored away. Either that, or Stark has been messing with my accounts again.

In the end, I got a cruise boat made to carry over two thousand people and over 500 crew, and in total, over three thousand. I bought the boat from Howard for a ridiculously cheap price (for the boat) only to find out, when Howard dropped it off at Dover, that it was _Olympic,_ the sister boat of _Titanic._

A little note was also handed to me by a smug Howard, which was signed both by his father and Stark (the one who I worked with in the American Civil War). Stark had read about Titanic in the journals I wrote and wrote to his future successor, Howard’s dad, to buy _Titanic_. Howard’s dad continued the letter, stating he did not find the letter until after the Titanic sunk (and how did his long-dead ancestor and I know about the ship in the first place) so he bought the only surviving ship of the Olympic-class ocean liners, which ended up to be the RMS _Olympic,_ just before it was being sold for scrap metal.

I waved off Howard as he started asking why I needed the _Olympic_ and how I knew of them in the 19th century, and called for the trains to start rolling from the mutant city to _Olympic._

(Victor and Nick had fun playing around on their decks. Howard’s dad had someone fix _Olympic_ up to the present day’s standards and give it a face lift, so not a speck of rust or dust was in sight. That would change soon enough.

“This ship looks familiar,” Nick remarks one day as I’m hanging of the bow of the ship. “Have we ridden it before?” I open my mouth to say no, but Victor beat me to the punch.

“You and I rode _Britannia_ while Lyall was still fighting on the Western Front.” Victor shrugs. “ _Britannia_ was _Olympic_ ’s sister ship and it blew up while we were on it.” I launched myself back onto the deck, hands placed on my hips.

“When was this? Why wasn’t I invited?” I demand, a little salty.

“I couldn’t find you, so I borrowed Nick from the Queen for a little while and took him on a boat trip. Oh, and their other sister ship was _Titanic._ The one that sank while all three of us were on it _.”_

“I can’t believe you didn’t invite me to watching a ship blow up.” I huff, throwing myself off the deck into the water below.)

There was the idea of concealing our trip, but I thought if _Titanic_ ’s bad luck passed onto its sister ship, then it would be best to be able to contact people in case of emergency.

Surprisingly it was simple work moving all mutants from Britain’s mutant city, and there was enough room for us to stop by France to pick up the mutants from Europe (which wasn’t a lot as Europe was still mostly in the control of Nazi Germany).

Many passengers tried to pay me, stating that a trip like this would cost lots, but I turned them away, simply stating that I don’t pay tax, so this was my contribution to the community.

The trip took a few months, as were most cruise ships, so I was reacquainted with the mutant world, and they with me.

During those months I also made a point to ask women first to do heavy jobs and ask the men to do the cooking, asking the few Muslims about their religion and giving them rooms to do their daily five prayers. Also, I mixed shades of skin with other shades of skin and calmly put down any and all arguments and all forms of racism or sexism.

Socially reforming a group of nearly three thousand people from the beginning of the 20th century was slow moving, but rewarding with every step.

I also got it slowly into their heads that showing their mutations wasn’t a crime anymore, only near humans, so on this mutant-only ship, sailing towards an island that would soon be mutant-only. Many mutants had the power to fly, going from weather control to different types of wings. I saw a mutant whose wings were made out of two humongous Japanese hand-held paper fans, a beautiful design on the open fan depicting his mood.

And merely a week from the island, a call for me came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, I would like to announce my new update schedule: now twice a month! I'll update every first and fifteenth. :)  
> I would appreciate if you commented or left kudos!


	18. 十八 - Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2017/1900!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't going to be centred around New Years Eve, but.....  
> Anyway, here's the double update I promised!

# Chapter Eighteen - Interlude

“Mummy,” Nick says gently placing the Japanese toy to the ground, taking to staring out the paper screens into Japan’s wilderness. “Why does everyone think I’m younger than I am?”

“Well you age physically five times slower than you are mentally, and not many people know about you, mutant community or not, so nobody knows about this fact except for Victor and I and the few Immorals who can be bothered to see who’s in their clique.” Nick starts nodding halfway through hearing the same spell of words, waving his hand at the end of my words.

“I know about _that_ ,” Nick says grumpily. “I just – can you please stop people giving me children’s toys? I’m _ten_.”

“Why? I find that they’re find to play with.” I say as I take the toy he abandoned and play around with it. “Never too old for toys.”

“And your body is so confusing,” Nick says, and I look up in interest as the conversation takes a turn that hasn’t occurred before. “You smile, and people mistake you for about 20 years old, you act aggressive and people think you as 30. _How?”_

“Fucked if I know.” I shrug, thinking about it. “And-”

“And you keep on using terms and phrases I’ve never heard of! _Fucked if I know_ and _that’s lit_ and _awesome_ and weird things you keep on saying that make no sense like _I’ve McFallen_ and _free shavacado._ ”

“Well,” I feel a laughter swelling up in my chest at the memes he’s sprouting. “I-”

“Not to mention _don’t speak to me and my son ever again_ and _I will find you and I will kill you_ (even though you never actually _do_ ) and you say _I am disgusted_ in a weird voice and _blocked_ when you don’t like whatever I say and _triggered_ when someone offends you and – are you laughing?”

Nick watched in confusion as I curled into a fetus position and laughed until I couldn’t make any noise, yet still continued.

“Mum?” he asks, reaching out to touch my forearm. I latch onto him, drawing the two-year-old body into my lap. I attack his sides, wriggling my fingers onto his sensitive skin. “Muh-Mum!” he giggles, chubby arms flailing.

A light knock taps the paper screens and I call “come in!” over Nick’s squeals. A horrifying rip breaks the cheerful mood and both Nick and I scramble to up right ourselves and turn to look towards the source.

Victor stands next to a paper screen, face carefully blank as he stares down at his fist through the paper.

“…Shit.” Victor mutters, gingerly taking his fist back out, only to nearly rip the door in two in his haste. “ _Shit_.”

He stumbles into the room, trying to distance himself from the paper screen, only to fall off the balcony and into the zen garden, disturbing the carefully drawn lines.

Nick starts giggling, tiny body drawing up the laughter from his lungs. I join in, letting go of Nick to help Victor up without disturbing the garden.

“Anyway,” Victor says, carefully ignoring the mess he just created, turn is back on the view to the outside. “I came here to tell you that the celebrations for New Years is beginning.”

I lean down to pick up Nick and sit him on my hip and touch my nose to his.

“You ready to celebrate s _hogatsu_?”

“ _Yeah!”_ Nick throws his arms up into the air and we leave the little hotel room.

Outside, the streets were packed with street markets, beautiful geishas in their best kimonos and men serving both traditional food and imported food from West.

Nick had slept most of the day away, so it was no problem for him to stay awake until past midnight.

As the fireworks went off, I hug Nick and nudge Victor.

“Welcome to 1900, dudes. The turn of the century."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the Japanese call fireworks 火花, which literally translates to fire flower.  
> Shogatsu is the Japanese word for New Year’s Day/New Year’s/New Year’s Celebrations. I can’t quite remember.  
> Have fun in 2017!


	19. 十九

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry for the wait, but we blew the internet quota so everything has been slow. And, mum gave me a bunch of jobs to do around the house to earn money since I can't get a job hehehehe....  
> Anyway, excuses that you won't read aside, I have some important news. While I was mucking around reading Star Wars ffics, one of the authors mentioned a natural climax, and it kind of came to me that pushing my minimum word limit on chapters (3,700-3,799 words) makes it very awkward, both for you, the reader, and me, to pick up on the last chapter.   
> So, I've reduced the word limit to 'natural climax.' This probably means shorter chapters, and definitely longer chapters.   
> I hope this means that my writing is improving, hehehehehe.....

# Chapter Nineteen

Suspiciously, the bow of the ship was always empty when I swung around to relax there. Occasionally Victor or Nick would come with to chat but often left before I felt the need to go back inside. Sometimes I watched the area from a distance, and yet nobody would go there. I have a feeling that everyone had designated that spot as mine and still worshipped the ground I walked on.

Despite the dangers, I liked sitting where the rails joined to make an angle, legs swinging in the breeze. If it had a figurehead or a longer piece of stick attached to the front like many old, pre-industrial revolution ships had I wouldn’t have minded spending time hanging off that.

Unfortunately, this was the 20th century, and powered ships no longer attained the majestic and slightly horrifying people attached to their bow. And it wasn’t like I could die from falling from the height and being run over by the boat; it would just take a longer time for me to heal after being brutally murdered and chopped up by the rudders.

Sometimes the boat rocks – not often, as it was a gigantic ship – and I almost do fall off, saved only by quick reflexes, my legs hooking onto the railing and squeezing, winding around the poles.

Such position Gerrant found me, along with the man with the Japanese fans for wings. By being upside down I was facing them, so I had no thoughts of getting up. Gerrant’s jaws chatter, a little laughter escaping, although mostly covered by the sound of bones banging and grinding together. His finger bones clink as he waves the other man forward. The fans were open, as part of my attempt to show that no mutant has to hide their powers anymore, splashes of paint, shapes and colour constantly rearranging and twisting on the fingers of the fan. As per usual, it was so abstract that I couldn’t pick an emotion he was feeling.

In his hand he held a long piece of paper which he held out to me, quickly retreating when I took it without a word.

Casting a little glance back to the Japanese fans, I unfold the paper, taking in the contents.

_Caller: Mr James Barnes. Receiver: Madam Lyall Howlett, on the 13 th of January, 1942. _

_Caller: His Majesty King George the Sixth. Receiver: Madam Lyall Howlett, on the 29 th of December, 1941._

_Caller: Mr Steve Rogers AKA Captain America. Receiver: Madam Lyall Howlett, on the 11 th of December, 1941. _

_All calls were made towards the Official Stark-Howlett line. None were connected towards the intended recipient as Howlett was not in contact with any Starks._

_This morning at 3 am (14 th of January, 1942) the telegram onboard the _Olympic _was reconnected and Sir Nick Fury-Howlett-Creed made contact with a Stark member (Sir Howard Stark). The opposing party was made aware that the telephone onboard the Olympic had not been working for the entirety of the ship’s trip from Germany._

“Who wrote this?” I ask, looking up to find that only the man was there. The fans were flat against his back, the shifting designs thrown in the shadow as the setting sun sat behind him.

“G-Gerrant,” he mutters, refusing to make eye contact, preferring to stare at his bare feet. “He was at the telegram since he was basically the only person who knew how to set it up.”

“Should’ve known by the positively ancient style of writing.” I laugh, slowly pushing one of my feet against the supporting poles and heaving my body over the railing. “Right, I’ll go to the telegram.” I pause, looking away from the piece of paper and back to the fans.

“They’re really pretty. Can you take me to the communication room? I don’t have a clue here it is.” The man’s fans flatten, and snap shut, pressing against his back. Meekly, he scuttles past me and leads the way.

* * *

 

“Why have the telephones been broken since Germany?” I ask as I enter, and the nearly the whole room freezes. Nick and Gerrant were over by the telegrams, tapping out replies lighting quick and writing down answers with one hand, barely looking at the paper. Victor was lounged in a chair, a cloth over his face. Either he was asleep or he was dead.

The nearest man, a barely-adult man with the power to control shapeshift tiny pieces of him (i.e. his ears or fingers) coughs and mutters out how a few mutants got rowdy from being released from the human’s eyes and damaged the telephone line.

I laugh it off, much to the surprise of the room and continue over to Nick and Gerrant. I find a nearby seat and drag it over to my son, not annoying him until he took off the headset.

He sighed as I drew him into my lap, curling my arms around his stomach.

“Hii~!” I say, tickling him a little down his sides. “What they want?”

“Well, basically, they all wanted to speak only to you. Bucky mentioned something along the lines of ‘mutants in Germany’ and ‘whatta ‘bout it, eh’ and ‘it would be nice to see you again, come fight with us.’ Stark said that he wondered how old I was, and then mentioned something about Steve. The other two were tight-lipped.”

“The King?”

“I donno. Just asked to speak to you at your convenience. Steve just mumbled about him wanting to talk to you, but Stark said he evaded any questions. I can ask Stark to send over a script of them all.”

“Nah, let them wait for a bit more anyway; I’ve let the king of England wait for a few weeks, all of them can wait until we land on the island, set up the community and ship off to find more mutants.”

“Yeah, what about that?” Gerrant leans over, along with the captain of the ship. “Captain Betty here came over to ask you.”

“Well, I was thinking that because I’ve got these calls, it’s best to answer in person, and we’ve still got to load people up from East Asia and South Africa. I like to make America realise it’s not the first place everyone thinks of, so leave them last. Not a decade later, just wait until like the end of the year or something. And it’s gonna take America – both south and north – to gather in one spot, so let them rally.” The captain squinted her eyes but stayed silent. Gerrant and Nick didn’t seem to be bothered by my view of America and Victor just let out an obnoxious snore.

“I’d like to extend my holiday away from the front line as long as possible, so I’ll say visit East Asia some place like India, then ship through the Red Sea to land in Egypt and I’ll hitch a ride – probs a plane – to Europe or Britain.”

Nick nodded and started to play around with my fingers against his stomach.

“So who’s coming back with us?” I ask, and the captain thinks.

“Well, I know that I’m coming with you Lyall,” Victor mutters under his cloth and resumes sleeping (or dying, I don’t know).

“That would take rest of the year, Madam,” the captain replies, tugging a little on the snakes that were her hair. “Wouldn’t you want to get to the king as soon as possible?”

“Nah,” I laugh, waving away her concerns. “The King is probably just asking after me and my wellbeing.”

“Oh, well, then,” Captain Betty huffs, “I’ll inform the navigators and we’ll start planning out the route and dates.” She left, several snakes hissing goodbye and one even snapping up the cloth over Victor’s face. Mortified, she tries to return it, but the snake refuses to let go of the blanket. She retreats with a flaming face as Victor slowly wakes up.

“Gerrant, any idea on how to set up will go?”

“Well, to your recommendation, we conducted a survey of everyone on board on what part of their government they like and dislike. As your demands, all who showed favouritism towards communism was approached with caution. The future government of this island was based on most English-speaking countries and the school curriculum was based on the Australia. You said you still wanted to look over that, so it’s sitting on your desk.” A desk that I had not visited for the past few weeks.

“Furthermore, the USA, Australia, and East Asia branches of LYALL have received the message about this island and has spread it out in the community, the slums first and the upper class last.” I give him a watery smile and immediately let it drop.

I was worried that me, a person who has no skills in the politics area, will try and fail to create a new government that promoted equality and justice and leaving everyone happy in the end. The only politics that I had really learnt was ‘look at history and see how awful communism is.’

Nick stopped fiddling around with my hands and rested his over mine and squeezed.

“Noona,” Nick says, in Korean of all things, “it’s okay, I’m sure that we can create a government suitable for mutants. It’s okay if you go on your own without hyung and me.” I raise my eyebrows at the choice of language but nevertheless, reply in Korean.

“Thank you Nick, but I want to spend time with you two regardless. I have been gone for thirty plus years.”

Nick slightly brightened at this words, young face smoothing out at my words. He doesn’t hug me – 60 years too late for those – but he does lean his upper body on mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yes, I forgot to tell you, I have a tumblr under the same username for you to shoot asks over. Nice anons welcome, and I will gladly answer any questions. Beaware, it's memes/kpop.


	20. 二十

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you spot it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was going to be very different if it wasn't for the fact I had an interesting conversation with a reader from Fanfiction.net. That's why it's so late; I was rewriting the whole thing.   
> Thank you to BaKuRa_Kurama13 for being the first to comment on Ao3!!  
> Wow! Chapter Twenty! Holy shit!

# Chapter Twenty

The bed was too cramped, the fabric itchy, the uneven quilt trapping pockets of hot air that nearly baked the person under it.

I threw off the covers, stumbling out to collapse in the chair next to the open windows. It was too hot. Sweltering. The heavy air pressing down, sweat appearing even when the temperature wasn't higher than 30 degrees.

I had known that this island was close to Australia, to the equator, had anticipated the fact that the climate would replicate the tropical rainforest.

I grinned, sliding open the windows, letting the cool wind swirl around me, drying the sweat.

I had never been to Australia. Tropical climates are technically a foreign idea.

But someone inside screamed that this was their childhood. She knew how to deal with this sweat, this heat, this humidity.

Calmly, I strode out of the room given to me (my name engraved on the door with Victor's nails) and walked throughout the multiple hallways to come upon Nick fanning himself in the wide lounge room.

It wasn't quite the lounge room that Amy was used to. Instead of wide chairs with fluffy cushions, all facing a certain point, this room was taken up by a huge, circular wooden table, with sturdy wooden chairs surrounding the table.

There were stacks of paper at nearly every chair, with one chunky, heavy typewriter at Nick's hands.

He slammed the paper to the side and began to angrily type, smashing down the delicate keys, the hammers hitting the paper with a loud thud.

I lean over, eyes easily finding the words, even in the darkness of sunrise _. It's so hot_ , he types _, I want to go back to Europe or Asia or America. After this, I want to go back to Canada. Maybe I can convince mum to take me to her old mansion._

"Not on your life, Nick," I remark, wincing when his skull smacks into my chin, pain pulsing once before it is healed.

"Fucking hell mum," he grumbles, rubbing the top of his head. "That hurt. When did you come out?"

"Just now. I don't want to return to that place and I have no intention of telling you the address. If it wasn't for Stark, the place should've already been razed to the ground or at least sold." I pat the top of Nick's head and rest my hands on the typewriter.

_I had asked if you wanted to follow me. I told you Australia is hot. You could've gone off with Victor, or by yourself, you're over sixty now._

Nick smacked my hands away, sliding the paper to the left.

_I can't go out by myself; everyone thinks I'm my physical age! Besides, I do like it here, but it's so hot!_

"Come with me," I say, gently sliding my arm around his shoulders when he stands up.

I lead him out of the house, a building created to be the centre of the new mutant town, great big windows letting in the sun and the wind, gorgeous carvings on nearly every surface, a bygone of the Victorian age, courtesy of Gerrant.

There were a few mutants littering the direction I took Nick, up because of insomnia or because of their mutation. We passed an old owl squatting on a fence, big eyes following our path.

Just beyond the last rows of buildings was the forest, completely unlike the usual forests of Europe and Britain. Nick scowled, taking in the sparse trees and the low shrubbery.

It was easy to spot the difference between Australian coastal forests and European.

European's forests were dense with trees, trunks thicker than Victor, and great big roots tearing up the earth. Australian native trees were mostly the size of my thigh and barely had any good climbing notches; the roots were centred around the base of the trunk and disappeared barely twenty centimetres from the tree. In between trees were little bushes of shrubs and weeds, leaves barely gracing the inner branches. Sometimes, orange termite mounds rose from the ground, great big things that scored height bigger than mine. The trees were a light brown colour, their leaves a bright, dry green, mostly brown. The bushes didn't even bother to colour their leaves; the colour wasn't as rich as the leaves, more a yellow than a brown. All in all, Australia's native plants together gave off the feeling of _dry_.

But there was also something else.

"Listen, Nick," I whisper, squatting to sit on a rock. "The breathy wind rustles the leaves just barely, creating a crescendo before you know it. The leaves a little instruments and the breeze is the musician, and the outback is the native orchestra. Sometimes you can tell it's just wind in between the leaves, and sometimes all that comes to mind is rain. It's beautiful. It's Australia."

Nick gingerly sits down, trying to fan himself. He stills as a great gush of wind flies through the trees, the rich sound of rustling leaves filling his mind.

"It's better," he agrees quietly.

"See, this is why Australia is my favourite place in the world."

"Yes," is all Nick says, and he doesn't say another word until the sun rises.

The owl from earlier joins us, spooky eyes trained on us. He leaves when the first rays of the sun touch the topmost branches, disappearing back to the town.

Nick leads me back, mumbling about the paperwork. When we get back, he pauses for a slight moment before tearing off the piece of paper he had just written on hours before and throws it in the bin.

I take a seat at the table, looking over the pages set around the seat I had taken the day before. Multiple people come in and out, taking a moment of my time to talk about trifle things about the town. Word came in around 8 am that a construction accident had happened, but it was all fine by 9 thanks to bystander mutants. Someone mentioned a statue of me and of the mutants who created LYALL, but that was shot down by me and Victor. Gerrant also looked a bit iffy on the subject as well.

Sometime around midday, Nick approached me, dark bags under his eyes from his lack of sleep over the past few days.

"I want to leave," he says.

"Ok. Go on then," I say. "May I ask where?"

"I _meant_ ," Nick says, frustration bleeding through his voice. "Leave. On a ship. To South America or something."

"And I _meant_ ," I reply dryly, "There is nothing holding you back. How long do you think you'll be gone?"

Nick stops and blinks. He had obviously thought that I was ready to keep him here.

"I - I don't know. A few years? Maybe decades?"

"Ok," I say, leafing through the pages. "To be honest, I thought you would've left us when you turned twenty or thirty. I don't know why you stuck around for so long."

Nick stared. He turned around and left, footsteps heavy and fists clenched.

* * *

"Lyall," Gerrant says, lightly dragging out the seat next to me and sitting down, bones hitting the wood with a dull thud. "Nick's leaving for Mexico."

"I know," I say, writing down a few guides and rules for the establishment of a school. "He told me."

Gerrant paused.

"…You're not going after him?"

"He's over sixty years old Gerrant," I raise an eyebrow at him. "I told him that I thought he would've left us when he was an adult."

Gerrant sighed and shook his head.

"Never mind Lyall," he grunts and pats my shoulder. "Just keep on going with the paperwork. What do you think about socialism?"

I pause, turning to look him in the eye socket. Was I missing something? Pausingly, I reply with honesty, trying to think of anything that had flown under my radar.

* * *

Sighing, I sign off the last paper, gently putting the pen down on the desk. With a second thought, I pick it up and throw it into the bin across the room, the pen hitting the wall before landing in the bin.

"Come on Victor," I say, storming into his room. "We're leaving. I've done the last of the paperwork." I pick up the bag I had thrown together last night when I had realised that the avalanche of paperwork was coming to a close.

"I've already got a plane ready, we just need to fly."

Victor grins, simply peeling himself off the floor where he had laid before like a cat. He doesn't bother with gathering clothes and taking trinkets with him, although I knew that his favourite coat was stuffed full of various foods.

It was the middle of the night, so once again, nobody but a few night crawlers saw us leave. The owl again swooped by, intelligent eyes following us.

"Pesky bird." Victor grunts. "Can I eat it?"

"No, I'm pretty sure that's a mutant," Victor grumbles, sliding the aeroplane shed door open. We drag out the plane by sheer force, Victor dragging out the flight gear and I running through the pre-flight sequence.

The owl sat on one of the fences, staring as I shrug on the thick flight jacket and clip on the helmet, dragging the goggles down to place them over my eyes. I walk over to lean against the fence, only a metre from where it sat. Strangely, it did not fly away.

"Hey, I don't know if you’re a mutant, but please don't tell everyone we've gone yet." A loud bang sounds from the shed, followed by a loud curse from Victor. I wince. "See ya. Maybe I'll see you again."

The plane's existence wasn't known to many; I had it shipped silently over to Australia, all funds coming from the Howlett fortune. That pile of gold had been taken under Stark's name so nobody could claim that the past owner was dead, although the Starks had kept that fortune separate from their own, and had carefully grown the account to scary levels.

Breathing in, and then out, I hitch myself over the top of the plane, settling into the main pilot seat, slightly turned to watch Victor squeeze himself into the backseat. He had turned down my offer to fly, stating my seat was smaller than the one he had chosen.

"You ready to fly?" I ask, practically quoting the words that came out of his mouth.

"I was ready since we landed."

I roll my eyes and start the plane, feeling it lurch forward, rolling down the tarmac. For a split second, I cast a glance towards where the owl was, only to find that the patch was bare.

Shrugging, I focus on righting the plane and starting the post-lift-off sequence.


	21. 二十一

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain America, Bucky Barnes and the Howling Commandos walk into a gun range where Lyall and Victor just _happen_ to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this might be the first time in a while I've actually posted on the target day, hahaha.

# Chapter Twenty-One

_Papapapapapa-POW_

Silently, the gun's scope trains on the dummy carefully lined up to its head. As soon as the barrel settled, the trigger was pulled, a loud bang joining the others as they echoed off the mountains. The dummy's head exploded, and the one next to it nearly two seconds after. Then the next, and the next, and the next…

The gun is dropped, the rifle hitting the ground with a bang. The hair-trigger trying to fire but there were no bullets left. I survey the area, picking up ten dummies with head shots and nine with chest shots. Smoke rose from the barrel, joining the low grey clouds that snaked between the mountains.

Another puff of smoke – Victor drew in one last breath from the cigarette, dropping it to the ground as he blows it upwards to the hidden sky. With a little shuffling of clothes, the last of the hit was nothing but a silver of smouldering smudge on the concrete.

Scowling, Victor stood, arms immediately crossing over his chest. His shoulders were up, and dark shadows enclosing his eyes.

“They’re here,” He grunts, narrowing his eyes to the entrance to the gun range. “All dolled up and about as inconspicuous as an orchestra in a library.”

There was no denying the fact that a bright white, blue and red dot captured everyone’s attention around the vicinity; at least the rest of the team members chose a dark green in an attempt to be discrete.

There was nobody else in the range, apart from one or two stragglers at the entrance, yet one of them – Bucky, I suppose – raised his hand to wave. Victor does nothing, so I return the greeting.

The closer they got, the more details I could spy. Bucky was looking better than ever, the dark bags under his eyes a lighter colour and wrinkles that I had thought came from age had disappeared. He looked younger than I remembered. Yet, there still was a dark note hidden in his eyes.

Steve was wearing a gigantic green coat over his costume, although his shield was still uncovered in its blinding colours. I cast my eyes on the rest of the Howling Commandos – Jacques was the only name I could recall, which was a shame since all of them were pleasant companions.

“Hey,” Jacques greets in French, “where’s your son?”

“Last I knew he was heading for Brazil.” I shrug, and shake Gabriel’s hand, overhearing his name from Dum Dum. “How’s the English going?”

“Terrible,” Gabriel grumbles, “he hasn’t even attempted.”

“Good. English can go fuck itself.” I nod and greet the others with pleasantries.

The lasting impressions from his capture by HYDRA still left their marks on Bucky, but his shoulders were relaxed, a little more energy from sleep bundled up in him, and his hand didn’t quite hover over his gun. He opened up his arms more, and the deep grooves between his eyebrows were almost gone.

The lot of them seem interested in what I had been up to while I was gone, and although I left out a good size of the story, it kept them entertained for a while.

I mentioned the phone calls, sliding the fact the King of Britain had called me under the carpet and asked what the two wanted to talk about.

“Oh, we’ve been finding the occasional mutant in our tours. Red Skull seemed to have an avid interest in _collecting_ mutants, and while some of them are, ah, basically dead, quite a few are okay. They normally don’t trust us until we mention your name.” Bucky explains, using hand gestures and all. I idly wonder if they put their trust in my name or in LYALL.

“I called because you hadn’t replied to Bucky’s call, so I was just checking in, in case you hadn’t realised Bucky rang.” Steve says, “are you going to join the D-Day program.”

“Was planning to, but if Victor wants, we could join you guys.”

Victor shrugged and grunted. “I don’t care.”

* * *

The shield was slicing through the air, barely wavering as masses of blue clouds try to knock it from the air. A man with thick metal armour and gigantic flamethrowers attached to his arms couldn’t get out of its path fast enough, the vibranium sending a loud ringing noise as it connects with his breastplate. He stumbles over, hungry flames rising from under his hands, torching the HYDRA grunts that tried to help him up.

The shield rockets around, hitting more and more people. Smirking, I jump out of the tree, aiming my claws to land in two enemy men’s skulls. They immediately pull out, stabbing every exposed chest or jaw that came into range.

Someone yelled and I turned around, only to see the shield slicing through the air towards me. Natural reflexes move my claws to form an X, but I knew it was pointless.

The shield slices through the bone, six knobby bloody bones clattering to the ground. The shield cuts into my chest; thankfully it doesn’t mow through, the shield coming to a stop just as it cleaves my heart in two. I throw up blood, the warm liquid a stark contrast to the cold German air; my legs went slack as soon as the shield touches the spinal nerves. A spell of dizziness fell onto me, and I couldn’t tell which way I fell.

Steve’s yelp sounded from my right, and I could hear Victor’s furious growling’s as he battles to my fallen body. Any HYDRA men that tried to touch me soon found themselves draw into a deadly battle with Victor or their heads exploded as Bucky shot bullet after bullet.

Victor doesn’t ask for any ceremony when he gets to my body; he rips out the shield, and I could vaguely see the dark blood that saturated the edge, along with some important insides and lungs.

The healing factor that had snapped into activity as soon as the shield breached my skin happily fixed what was life-threatening first, generating cells that wouldn’t be in a normal human body, smoothing over wrinkles in the formation of organs and patched up the spine, removing the paralysis.

Groaning, I sit up, a whole body shudder convulsing through my body as the claws regrew and the ribcage encased my lungs once more. In not even three minutes, I was up and running again, the last bruises vanishing as I rejoin the fight.

It ends within the next twenty minutes, all attacking HYDRA men killed or mortally wounded and scientists surrendering. Bucky comes out of the forest as Dum Dum and Jacques herd the POWs to a suitable holding place.

Bucky and Steve both wore mirroring sick, vaguely sick faces, Steve now trying to not touch the dried blood on the edge of his shield.

“That was disgusting,” Bucky blurts. “I watched the whole healing thing from my gun’s scope.” He shudders.

“I’m sorry that I hit you,” Steve says, landing a hand on my shoulder. “I should’ve watched where it was going.”

“Dude, not your fault. I just got unlucky to where and when I attacked.” I smile at him.

“I had a _front-row_ seat to your body reattaching itself together.” He makes a weird face, like he was about to throw up, but swallowed the foul vomit. “That should be a torture technique.” A horrified Steve wacked Bucky on the shoulder and dragged him away to the rest of the group to stand guard with the prisoners and hopefully remove the poison tooth before too many scientists could use them.

“I’ll leave you to search the building.” He shouts over his shoulder, tilting his head towards the smoking ruins of the HYDRA facility. I wave agreement and started to slink over to the entrance, iron doors blasted open courtesy of Gabriel’s bombs.

Steve’s use of his shield was incredibly complex and mind-boggling to the average human. Not only would he use physics to predict where the shield would go, he would also compute to where each person on the field would be to maximise lethality and to not hit allies.

Jacques describe the first few fights together – Steve had to constantly jump in the way of one of the Howling Commandos to block the oncoming shield and frequently it was flying off into the forest because the lack of soldiers that could bounce it back into the fight.

Later, as Steve learned the Howling Commando’s attack habits and HYDRA battle tactics, the time the shield was in the air grew longer and longer until it became the feared weapon it was today. With Victor and I joining the fight, his plans were thrown into whack, not only because our fighting skills were a little old school, but we weren’t afraid of throwing ourselves into an oncoming bullet. Many times Steve had forgotten that we could survive a bullet to the skull and this battle wasn’t the first time I had nearly been hit by the shield. This was the first where I actually got _hit_.

The building wasn’t pretty; dead and groaning guards decorated the walls and floors. The last few stragglers died with the introduction of Victor’s or my newly grown claws. At first glance, this building didn’t resemble any other base we had hit, but half of HYDRA’s security relied on secrets got getting out to the enemy.

The hidden rooms to mutant storage were normally marked by a little notch or a bookshelf that was a door. Important files were normally hidden nearby the mutant room and with a vaguely similar mark.

This base only had one mutant, luckily, and looked fresh and well-fed enough to guess they hadn’t been held for long.

The mutant’s gender was impossible to identify through the gender neutral clothing and shaved head. Every time I blink, the soft features switched to masculine and then back.

“Hello, don’t worry, we’re here to save you,” I cheerfully say, and the mutant slowly brings up his/her head, eyes blinking slowly. Even from the distance, it was easy to see one of his/her pupils were far large than the other. “Please don’t attack us when we release you. It would create a large hassle that I don’t want to be bothered with today.”

The mutant didn’t say anything, just watched me as I cut through the binders on the wrists, stomach and ankles.

 I position myself to kneel backwards in front of the mutant, waiting for the idea to be passed along. Gingerly, small arms circle around my neck, followed by legs around my hip.

Victor comes back from the usual search-and-find-nothing of the room, waving us on. Gabriel was already shuffling through the hidden files to deem what was good enough to take home with us.

“Your son doesn’t think you see him like that.” The mutant murmurs against my neck, sending a little chill down my spine. I pause, waiting to see if there was anything they wanted to add, but it sounded like they were asleep.

Any normal person would seem spooked, but I had come across a fair share of powers that just seemed so out there that it was impossible just to think it up by yourself.

This mutant could probably see the future, or the past, or _something_ , probably triggered by skin touch or close proximity. A usual power.

“Thank you for your insight,” I say and exit after Victor, vigilantly keeping an eye out if anybody that refused to die wanted to put a bullet through the mutant on my back.

The remaining POWS had dropped to a mere three, with Jacques throwing away a small white thing. This small number were the only ones they were able to remove the tooth before they could commit suicide. Steve looked extremely disgruntled by this fact.

“Ok then,” he says. “Time to call back to base.” He grins and waves to Dum Dum, who had just returned from the forest to find their hidden radio.

“Is the mutant ok?” Jacques asks as he shackles the scientists with rope.

“He wasn’t in there long enough to receive physical damage,” Victor replies, calmly switching to French. The first time this happened, Gabriel couldn’t believe Victor spoke anything but Grunt and Glare.

The Howling Commandos and Victor had bonded over the past few weeks; fighting together was really the only way to get close with my brother.

The base called in, saying there was a good clearing for landing a few miles from our current position, and without further ado, as soon as Gabriel returned from the base, we set off.

Victor and a few of the others were conversing on the fight and how to improve our attack, with Steve included. He seemed quite worried about the fact that he nearly cut me in half, and several times they tried to draw me into the conversation, but all I could think about was the words the mutant had whispered.


	22. 二十二

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyyyy you know what it is  
> i have no excuse for why its so late. hahaha.   
> I had this well completed before the end of feburary. maybe becuase i was distracted by the drop bears clean up on the 30th to the 31st.

# Chapter Twenty-Two

I knew the moment I heard the debriefing that this was the one.

The temperature was biting, snowflakes that burned to the touch swirling in the mystical, freezing gale. Underfoot, hidden rocks sliced through the soles of our feet, doubling the pain. Victor and I had refused the woolly coats and thickened boots in favour of speed. The cold froze the wounds in our feet before they could blood onto the cold snow.

The objective was this: Zelo, the mad scientist that was Schmidt’s right hand and the one to experiment on Bucky and me, was being transported to another base through this mountain range on a secret HYDRA train tracks. To capture the train, the Howling Commandos had to climb a mountain overlooking the railway, launch a rope to land over where the train would run and wait.

Because Victor and I could carry what most men would struggle to lift, we had volunteered to carry the radio, the rope and the bars that would safely send us down to the train. The higher we hiked, the less air there was to breathe in. Towards the end, it was only Steve who wasn’t huffing like a madman. Even my intakes were just that quicker than normal.

Gabe and Jacques argued on the angle to what the launching cannon-thing would be set at, right up to the point Steve broke their French to announce that they had arrived. Quietly, I slide the heavy radio off my back and set it gently on the ground, patting the snow to check if there were any hidden rocks.

Dum Dum and Jim take over the radio from there, switching it on, finding the frequency and entering the passwords. By the time he’s done, the little snowstorm that had been going for hours was starting to break up.

“There’s the railway,” Bucky announces, and all of us turn to silently stare at the sharp black lines breaking through the falling snow. A few seconds later the radio crackles, drawing Jim back to the box.

“The trains coming in about ten minutes.” He reports, standing up to face Steve. Steve lets out a big sigh, clapping his gloved hands together.

“All right men, and woman,” Steve picks up a little bar that he hooked onto the rope. “We’re only going to have a little window of opportunity to land on this train. Jacques, Jim and James, you’re gonna stay here to report back to base that we’ve landed on the train. It’s up to you if you keep the radio with you. Personally, I don’t care. Remember, our objective this time is to capture Zelo, not a simple find-and-destroy.”

We all voice our agreements, Bucky drawing aside Steve in a little chat. The little air that I could breathe seemed to stab knives into my throat as I released it.

(Was I going to let him die?)

I cast a glance over to my brother, who was lazing about in the snow. I flop down face first and start to draw an angel with my body, next to Victor. He grunts when wayward limbs hit him. The snow was even colder when in direct contact with skin yet the powdery substance didn’t help to settle my whirling thoughts.

(Was I going to let HYDRA take him again?)

I stopped moving, letting a little shudder run through my body.

The radio crackled again. I could hear Jin or Dum Dum shuffling in the snow to crouch in front of it.

“It’s almost here,” he says, and Victor huffs, flicking little chunks of snow over to me, ruining the snow angel. I don’t bother to preserve the angel, after all, who the fuck is gonna see it, and completely roll over one of the wings to get up. The result was a rather funny looking angel. I laugh as I dust off the snow from my face, picking up one of the bars from the pile next to the radio.

I pick up the sounds of the train and all thoughts of playing around vanish from my mind as I hook the bar to the rope. An idea pops into my head.

“We only have a window of opportunity here,” Steve calmly says as he picks up his own bar “So let’s act quickly.” The sounds of a train – the squeals as metal ground against metal, hot puffs of smoke as the coal burned, a high-pitched scream as the stream was released – grew louder and louder until the rattling of the railways was visible to my eyes.

Finally, a black chimney dashed out from behind a mountain ledge, the rest of the train’s engine following; it looked like someone had taken a thick brush and drew a dark snake between the mountains. Maybe this was one of the head that we were destroying and burning.

A sound left Steve’s mouth as soon as it was at least two carriage’s width from the rope; there wasn’t much of a distance between the ridges and the rope did not completely cover the tracks. I peek over my shoulder, looking at Victor.

“Now, honey, I know that you’re scared of heights, just don’t look down, ok?” I speak in an extremely sweet and sappy voice, immediately lifting my legs and throwing myself of the ridge before Victor could take a swipe at me.

The gap between the ridges rapidly disappeared. I look down; it was hard to discern if the layer of white was snow or fog. Roaring, HYDRA’s train slithered under me, the carriages flickering by. Thankfully the army had decided that practice would be good for this mission, so the act of letting go and landing on the train’s top was almost just like another practice session.

Victor, Steve, Bucky, Dum Dum and Gabe landed in that order with heavy thumps. By the time Gabe landed, I had already punched through the roof and murdered the HYDRA sycophants clustered in the carriage furthest from the engine. As soon as Victor and I had gained enough footing on the next waggon, Steve and Bucky and climbed up to the top of the roof with Dum Dum and Gabe covering them in case the grunts saw that they were climbing up on the roof.

There was enough stuff in each coach that it would’ve been a shame to blow it up so I unhooked them and let them slowly lose momentum, one by one disappearing behind the snowy mountain ridges.

From the memories of the movie, this next scene felt like it happened in a flash – the happy fighting, the man with the gun, Bucky welding Steve’s shield and the fall all in a fast paced minute. But to us – to _me_ – it was just another mission; fight, hack, kill, murder. Slicing throats and puncturing hearts.

It took at least ten minutes to clear a carriage and disconnect it – twenty if the enemy was being especially crafty. It takes some time to unhook the carriages from one another; it takes a while to fight with the pin keeping them locked, but the carriage automatically dislodges from the next waggon once it’s removed. The angry red marks in my palms disappear nearly as soon as I let the pin fall onto the snow.

It’s just the second carriage before the engine; unlike all the rest, no shouts, footfalls and clicking of guns floated through the open windows. I entertain the thought that maybe they were prepared to shoot us full of holes, but discard the idea once I peak through the windows.

“Hey,” Dum Dum calls from above. “Bucky and Steve are stuck in the carriage. Could you help us down? I remember that there’s gonna be a tunnel soon.” The HYDRA train blueprints didn’t include ladders reaching the roof, but they also designed it so even a normal human could step from one roof to another.

Victor unhappily accepts his future career as a human ladder, scowl deepening as Gabe accidently hitting his face with his shoe. Finally, us four were crowded onto the little ledge, Victor and I standing as close to the snow in case something happened and we two could survive the fall.

“Alright,” I say, “I saw Bucky hiding behind a couple of boxes and a HYDRA sycophant on the opposite. I could also see one of those flamethrowers hiding behind the next door.”

“Damn Lyall,” Gabe states as he peeks through the door. “I can barely see a shadow on the other side – I can’t even see the next door.” He turns around to grin.

“So what do we do?” Victor asks. He leans to the side of the train and quickly draws back in. “I can see the tunnel closing in, but it doesn’t look that long. Only about 5 seconds of darkness.”

“Do we want to break in while they can’t see anything?” Dum Dum asks and they look to me.

“Make sure it’s as soon as the darkness envelops them, ok? Don’t want the HYDRA guy to start attacking Bucky in the darkness.” I nod and peek out. “Get ready,”

You could already hear the echoing growl of the engine entering the tunnel, the tiny circle in the mountain quickly engulfing the train. Victor immediately kicks the door at the handle, the lock breaking under the force.

Gabe yells, calling Bucky’s name. I run straight for the HYDRA agent, finding him from the smell of smoke emitting from the gun in his hands. He quickly falls to the ground, dead.

Seconds pass, and the weak sunlight falls through the minimal window. Bucky chats with his teammates, but the moment quickly passes, the five of us pressing up to the next door. The flamethrower is gone, the next door slightly open. I quickly flick the lock on the next door and stumble out to the little ledges between the carriages. Bucky, Dum Dum and Gabe soon step onto the next ledge, casting looks through the windows.

I start to unpick the locks connecting the carriages together.

“Wait,” Gabe says. “You two go ahead; you can fight the flamethrower better than me.” He starts to untie the communication lines and cutting thicker ones with his Swiss Army Knife. Dum Dum gets down and helps Gabe. Here, the cable lines were thicker than before because there had to be a certain amount of lines for every other carriage after it and technology hadn’t adapted far for one single line to be enough for twenty plus cars.

Bucky doesn’t get down to help out. Faintly, a voice suggested that I could demand him to help Gabe and Dum Dum; it would, after all, save him. I ignore it.

(His death was important to the plot. I couldn’t get my stupid attachments destroy it.)

The fight, at first, was going well. It was easy to hold the man off, although Victor and I couldn’t get close enough to attack him as he vomited flames in moving walls, keeping us trapped in a corner.

From the other side of the carriage, Captain America flew in, shield flying. Finally, with the added ally, the flame thrower was slowly losing.

I couldn’t see what happened next, as the man spat orange in our direction, keeping Victor and I up against the wall. Besides the roar of the flames, I could hear Bucky laughing and Steve’s low voice.

Steve shouts. The train rocks as something hits the opposite side and tears a massive hole, the metal peeling back. Victor and I rush over, spotting the dark smudge that was the HYDRA man falling into the swirling mist. Suddenly it doesn’t feel like calm, smooth frozen water. Suddenly it looks like the mouth of a monster.

For the first time in ages my heart races when I spot Bucky holding onto a bar on the exposed train. Steve tries to reach out but I can see the screw loosening.

My heart is in my throat, and at the same time the roar of the engine – so close – is beaten by the thumping of my heartbeat. I can’t draw on my absent voice, and it felt like my healing ability failed as my muscles locked into place.

I should let him fall. Steve would find him in the future, and suddenly he wouldn’t be so lonely in the twenty-first century. The _plot_.

But my mind races, thinking up plans – I could save Steve the flight to Antarctica, and it would be Bucky as the one alone in the future.

I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t handle my addled brain. I took too long.

Steve _screams_ when the screw gives out, plunging Bucky to his supposed death. It was too late –

Steve starts destroying the black cases inside the train. Multiple HYDRA prototypes are reduced to nothing. We pass a mountain. Gabe and Dum Dum finally make it into the carriage, faces falling when they can’t spot Bucky and see Steve punching holes into the floor of the train.

_But it was never too late._

I take a deep breath and launch myself off the train, falling after Bucky _._

_I could still save him._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was too late.


	23. 二十三

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Delayed uploading because i couldn't be bothered to open my laptop until today oh well.

# Chapter Twenty-Three

I sit up, eyes calmly sliding open.

For a moment, the lack of colour extends all around me, rolling fog and falling snow blending in with the fresh layer of white, smoothing over the deep ditches my steps created.

“Lyall?” Victor’s voice cuts through the memory, my surroundings settling into a tiny, dirty white medical tent. I slide off the bed, already knowing that nothing was wrong with me, accepting the coat Victor held out. “I found you where the snow stops and brought you in. Steve’s been waiting for you to wake up.”

“Are they here?” I coolly say, buttoning up the military coat and kicking off the basic pants. The coat was long enough to cover it up. “Or did someone force them to go on a mission?”

“The Howling Commandos are mostly sleeping in the dorms. Steve’s hanging out at a destroyed town not far from here.” Victor gestures to the line of cars resting nearby the entrance to the camp. “Shall we?”

“You don’t have to come, Victor,” I say, swinging open the door. A young officer drifted closer, talking about registration but he scattered when I glared at him. “It doesn’t bother you.” Victor just swings into the back compartment of the truck, tearing through the fabric covering the end. When I get in, I slide the window between the back open and he leans through.

“I’m fine with following you; there’s nothing much to do at the camp.” He says and vanishes, the window sliding back. I start the car, easing it out of the line of automobiles. The dirt track out of the camp connects to a proper road. Little signs of the upcoming town scattered across the road like dust easily direct me to it.

Sure enough, the town looks like it had been bombed severely, signs of life fading away after months of abandonment. Only one road had been cleared to some degree. Several times big debris blocked a pathway, sending the car travelling throughout the city.

We had been at the base previously, some months ago. Back then, some off-roster soldiers were planning to ransack this town for alcohol. They had already cleared a path to the closest one they could find, but by the time we had left the supply was already running low.

The town reminded me of survival video games – masses of debris blocking you, making you go the long way round and fighting more monsters. I crack a slight smile.

Finally, a line of crushed cars and once-newspaper stands appear after turning a corner. Right next to it was a pub, one of its lights still blinking feebly. I park the car and hop out, checking on Victor. He had fallen asleep in the back, mouth completely open.

Steve’s hunched over shoulders lean over the counter, several bottles of high-class liquor gathered around him.

“Go away General….” He grunts, sliding a hand around another bottle. I simply stride over quickly and quietly, picking up an empty bottle. I gaze around, taking in all the labels, and raised my eyebrows; drinking all this would’ve killed a normal human.

“Major Howlett!” Steve gasps, chair squeaking as he sits up violently. He had called me by that name since we came back; evidently, he had learnt of my existing rank in the American army. “I – ah – when did you wake up.”

“Approx. twenty minutes ago.” I reply, picking up a bottle that had a sizable chunk left at the bottom. “After I jumped off the train….” Steve just stops – all breathing, small twitches and blinking just abandons him.

The words are stuck in my mouth. I take a swig. My blinking rapidly increases. I need to tell him. Why can’t I –

“I was too late – I had to go around a mountain and a snow storm kicked up and -” A single tear slides down my cheek. I take another, shuddering breath, and prepared to tell him about the faded footprints and drag tracks.

“He died peacefully, didn’t he?” Steve interrupts, and I’m too stunned to correct him. “I’ve heard that hyperthermia is like sleeping, right?” he sniffles, constantly wiping away the constant stream of tears.

I can’t. The sight of Captain America crying crushes any words in my throat.

I leave.

Another car turns up just as I start the car. Peggy hops out.

I drive away, refusing to wipe away the tears.

* * *

 

(Stupid, stupid, stupid – you really thought that you could change the plot?)

Victor slides the little window, tapping my shoulder.

“You feeling angry?” He asks. I just blink, furiously ignoring the tears that threaten to gather.

The forest scene doesn’t change as the air grew saltier and saltier – but slowly the road widened until with one final turn, the road opens up to a quiet hideout, tiny fences reminiscent of the old Victorian age bracketing the lookout.

There was a tantalising second where the distance between the curve and the coastline invited to challenge my healing ability, and the vision of sending the car speeding over the edge was almost a reality. But the engine coughs and I realise that I didn’t own the car, and the camp was already stretched over expenses.

I bring it to a slow crawl as the dirt road widens, enough space for parking cars – or horse-drawn carriages, which was what the empty space was made for – and kill the engine, sliding out of the door.

The fence is high enough to discourage any runaway children of accidently tipping over the edge but low enough for it to not obstruct any views. It was also short enough for any adult figure to off themselves. The iron is lined with rust, clearly worn down by the strong wind. Below, the soft sounds of violent waves are just outside of easy hearing range, almost sounding like peaceful, calm waves lapping at a beach.

Slightly hidden in the woods is a dainty gazebo, both the arbour and the shade overgrown with artfully placed vines and roses lining the edges. It was slightly wild after years of no treatment, and the man-made gardens were laced with pesky weeds.

This had been a popular place to visit prior to Queen Victoria’s death and the end of her era – before the local towns urbanised and they collaborated into one massive modern-day city. Ladies looking for husbands frequented the place, meeting men from the neighbouring towns, and vice versa.

Gerrant had lived around this area while he was setting up the Immorals – he had recommended the place when he heard that Victor and I were travelling the area. The reason why we were so close has been lost in time, and I couldn’t be bothered with shuffling through my memories. The quaint and easy atmosphere was a welcome break.

After the D-Day fiasco, the Howling Commandos were tasked with the setup of a new base along the coastline of France. It wasn’t much of a strategic location, too far from the front lines of any help. As soon as they announced that the convoy of cars and trucks had arrived, I had remembered this spot.

The location seemed to be lost among the local townspeople, and only a very few elderly people could claim that they knew that it was there.

The first time Victor and I arrived at this place, the forest had been less dense, allowing those who sit in the gazebo to gaze across the open ocean. Over the decades and lack of maintenance, as the place fell into unuse, the trees could finally grow to their wishes.

I silently walk over to the gazebo, pretending to be an uptight, dainty Victorian lady I would’ve been had I not been a mutant. There are dried bird droppings and stray leaves that would repulse any ordinary lady, but I simply ignore them. Anything that I sat on could easily be washed off, and if my skin touched it then the same deal.

The trees completely obscured the view, just a few patches of blue breaking through the leaves. The vines that used to compliment the design of the metal now completely covered the poles, and what little was seen was orange with rust.

My previously straight back sagged as soon as I spotted the little engraving from 1889. That year felt like it was just a few months ago, but the time I showed the Howling Commandos while the camp was being constructed also felt like it fell on the same date.

Eighteen eighty-nine. That was fifty-four years ago. How old was I? I knew I had celebrated my 100th only some time back...

The calculations in my head click and I’m left mentally staring at my age.

Approximately a hundred and eleven years ago, I was born.

I flop backwards, sliding down the seat until it was only my head that was prompted upon the intricate backrest.

_Fuck._

“Lyall?” Victor’s voice comes floating through. The metal seats groan as he lounges next to me. “You’re making a weird face.” He prods my side. When I don’t move, he curls his arm behind me and drags me up.

“Have you ever considered how old we are?” I whisper, and curl up into a little ball, hugging my knees to my chest. Victor startles at the answer and draws in a sharp breath.

“Lyall, come on, don’t do this to me,” he grumbles, sounding a little salty. “Yeah, we’re immortal. People are gonna die long before we do.”

It felt like a black hole was opening up in my chest; absorbing all the light and emotions until nothing was left. It felt like everything I lived for was sucked up into a tiny ball and thrown away.

Why _bother_ with constructing new relationships? They’re all gonna die in the end, leaving me behind.

Why _care_ about a country I wasn’t even born in? I had no reason to fight this war.

Nothing _matters_ anymore… why does the world continue to bother me so? Just leave me alone… nobody is worth caring for if they’re all going to die in the end…

“Lyall, snap out of it!” Victor’s hands on my shoulders felt like they were the world away, like my skin had lost all feeling.

(Who cares… everyone I care for is just gonna die…)

Victor’s nails start to bite into my skin, tiny beads of blood escaping from under his fingers. It felt like millions of ants were crawling all over my body.

“I’m calling in Gerrant,” my brother finally sighs, “Just sit in the car until we get back to camp.”

“’Kay,” I murmur, and slide into the car without any more prompts, clicking in the seatbelt.

**Author's Note:**

> Awww YEAHHH I have a tumblr with the same username hit me up with asks i'm happy to answer other than that imma meme/kpop blog feel free to follow  
> http://theninjafromyesterday.tumblr.com/
> 
> PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE COMMENT AND LEAVE KUDOS I NEED YOUR LOVE


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